Down Feathers
by AvenJackel
Summary: After Bruce's apparent death, Dick is forced to take up the cowl. Alone. With two weeks as Batman under his belt, his life is once again turned upside down when a dark secret is revealed, and a two-year-old assassin is left in his care. Said toddler's name? Damian Grayson. Will Dick survive long enough to bring his broken family back together? Or will the League of Assassins win?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: This is merely for fun, and is not intended for profit. I own nothing except my own sad, lonely, fangirlyness. Cover belongs to KINOKO19 from deviantART.**

* * *

"You've disappointed me, Richard."

The voice ripped past his ears, bouncing against the walls of his aching head and shattering whatever vestiges of unconsciousness that had gripped his beaten and bloodied body. A barely audible groan slipped past his split lips, but he hardly heard it because his ears felt stuffed with cotton and made everything sound like it was underwater. Prying his eyes open (or at least one of them, as the other was sorely swollen and hard to see past), he noticed with relief that his cowl was still on and he had the rest of his suit and the majority of his weapons. Obviously, whoever was currently holding him in a death grip (which was stronger than even the most well-trained man, so it must've been someone with enhanced strength) either wanted him to escape (not typical at all) or underestimated him (like always).

"I expected you to last longer against my assassins."

Raising his all-too-sore head and meeting the icy gaze of his captor, he would've flinched or groaned had he not been trained nearly all his life.

_Way to go, Grayson,_ he mentally chastised himself, not allowing a single ounce of emotion on his expression. _You last two weeks in the cowl before being caught by one of your mortal enemies. Just great._

"Talia," he nodded minutely in greeting. "Long time no see. We missed you at the Christmas party," he remarked sarcastically.

"This is no time for your idle chatter, Richard," the daughter of the Bat Family's least favorite crime lord replied coldly. She turned her gaze onto the creatures holding him steady (man-bats, he noticed through his peripheral vision). "Bring him," Talia ordered, before turning on her heel and stalking out of the spacious underground facility.

Without any hesitation, the mutated creatures loyally followed their leader, carelessly dragging the battered black-clad figure between them. Their footsteps were measured, quiet, _**professional**_. Oh. _Oh._ He was in over his head, wasn't he?

_Great. Just perfect,_ Dick rolled his eyes skyward, once again glad that the cowl was there to hide the expression. _**Ninja**__ man-bats. What else could go wrong? _Well, at least he didn't feel any of the pain he must've been in. The League probably had him drugged beyond recognition, and the remaining effects had yet to completely wear off.

After walking along a clean and empty hallway, they stepped into what looked to be a training room, if the various beheaded sparring dummies were anything to go by. Aside from fake scattered limbs, the cavernous room had rows of organized weapons, ranging anywhere from ancient broadswords to state-of-the-art snipers. A variety of obstacles and the like lined the outer corners, while a whole horde of assassins stood resolutely around the walls, with several more facing off against another figure in the middle of a fighting ring.

_Shouldn't have jinxed it_.

"Listen, Talia," the replacement Batman started, effectively gaining the villainess' attention. "I'm a pretty busy guy, so why don't we just make this quick and you can send me on my way."

"Not likely to happen, Richard," Talia argued with vague indifference. "Things have been set in motion. Things that cannot be stopped."

"I'm not going to get another destiny lecture, am I?" he quipped with a distinct scoff.

"I'm not here to bore you with details," she waved off the notion as if it were some bothersome insect. "Simply know that the truth still alludes you, even after all these years."

"And what truth are we talking about here?"

A sly smile spread across her beautiful features, and the knowing look in her brown eyes left Dick wondering just what he was missing. She sauntered up to him, until their noses were nearly brushing. With chagrin, Dick noticed in the back of his mind that even now he was barely taller than the woman (_Why am I so short? Oh, right Grayson, focus, villainous monologue coming up.)_

She leaned further still, so that her lips were just brushing the outside of where his ear was in the cowl, and whispered so quietly that he had to strain just to catch the words. _"The truth about the night the Graysons fell."_

At that, she turned on her heel and left his mind reeling. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open slightly. Forcing an emotionless mask over his features, he narrowed his bright blue eyes and followed Talia's slow retreat.

"And here I thought Beloved had you well-trained."

"What are you talking about?" he ground out.

She sent him a pitying look over her shoulder, and a flash of some unidentified emotion passed through her dark brown eyes. But whatever feeling she had, it was gone before he could tell what it was, and the look of cold indifference returned. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose as she noticed how tense he had become, and she mentally tsked. It seemed that the boy was still not over his family's deaths, even after so long.

Cold anger rushed through her captive's veins, but he shoved the emotion away and thought about the predicament logically. _Come on, Grayson,_ he chided mentally. _Bruce trained you better than __**this**__. _Taking a steadying breath, he assured himself that the Wicked Witch of the Middle East was lying. Tony Zucco had sabotaged the trapeze wires, and Dick had personally taken down the mobster. There was nothing more to the story, no more lies to uncover. So, instead of crying over the situation, he assessed the problem.

The oppressive weight on his shoulders and head told him that the cape and cowl were in place, and there was still the comforting pressure of his utility belt. They didn't want to kill him. That was reassuring, if only a bit. His arms were held back painfully, with almost enough strength to dislocate both of them, and he had been forced down onto his scrapped and bloodied knees. Slightly embarrassing, but not the worst position he had been in. Around the training room, there were at least twenty of Talia's elite assassins, and the sound of familiar leathery rustling behind him clued the hero in to the presence of roughly ten man-bats. Not the ideal situation, but doable if he could manage to stay on his feet.

"But we are not here to discuss your incompetence," Talia remarked.

"There's a first for everything," Dick just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes.

"Silence yourself, boy, before we do it for you."

Well, at least _**that**_ was expected.

"He has grown unruly," Talia continued as if she hadn't just threatened him.

"He?" Dick interrupted before he could help himself, receiving a scolding glare that immediately silenced him. Anger still colored his cheeks, but he knew full well that Talia could be lying, and that getting out was more important than taking time to feel bad about something that happened fourteen years ago. He'd investigate what she had said when he _**wasn't**_ being held down by ninja man-bats.

"After much deliberation, it has been decided to leave him in your…_**capable**_ hands," she told him with just a hint of disdain, and maybe something else.

"Him _**who**_?" the vigilante demanded, growing tired of the villainess' riddles.

Ignoring his question, which was probably for the better on his behalf, Talia instead turned to the tight grouping of masked assassins that had previously been fighting against a common 'enemy'. "Damian!" she snapped, making the name sound like an icy command more than anything.

Had it not been for the blank white eyelets in the cowl, Dick's eyes would've bugged right out of his head as a _**toddler**_ stepped out of the crowd of assassins and briskly strode towards the brown-haired woman. A cut ran across one of his round cherub cheeks, and there was a nasty bruise over one of his brows. His petite figure was lean, yet still maintained plenty of baby fat, and was clad in flexible white robes which made his naturally tanned skin and bright blue eyes stand out, while the boy's spiky black hair went in every which way.

"Didn't realize you were running a daycare, Talia," Dick all but spat.

She was training a _**toddler**_ how to _**kill**_.

The boy stopped beside Talia, just barely reaching past the woman's knee. He held himself like a miniature soldier, straight-backed and stoic, not allowing for any faults or stumbling in his steps. His face was emotionless and cold, eerily empty for a child such an age as his. While most toddlers would be laughing and playing, this poor unfortunate boy was stuck wielding weapons and trying not to be killed by well-trained ninja assassins.

"Richard, this is Damian, the League's young prodigy," Talia introduced the toddler boy, whose arms were crossed over his tiny chest and whose round face was settled into a frightfully angry scowl.

"Since when did you start training them _**this**_ early?" he snapped out in disgust and loathing.

"As I said earlier Richard, things have been set into motion. And Damian happens to be part of it," she replied smoothly, before turning to the boy next to her, whose icy blue eyes were locked on Batman's masked face. "Damian, this is your father."

* * *

**Word Count: 1,534**

**A/N: So, yeah, that just happened. And, yes, I'm starting another story (whoops…), this one featuring my all-time favorite Dynamic Duo: Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne! Just, in an entirely different way…and Damian's a toddler…just because.**

** And that's the only reason I need.**

** This plot bunny ambushed me after I watched the trailer for the new DC animated movie Son of Batman (which I'm both completely excited for, and completely dreading…they totally screwed Dd over…fucking DC), and it just wouldn't leave me alone, so I typed it up. I'm not sure if I'll follow through with it, but I really like the idea. I've always seen Dick as 1000x more of a father to Damian than Bruce ever was, and I've recently been having DickxDamian withdraw (thanks to scrolling through my deviantART favorites) and making myself really, **_**really**_** sad. So I decided, 'Hey! Why don't I write a Dick and Dami story, except actually make them father and son!'**

** Or, long story short, this is the illegitimate love child of my hopeful wishing and my ugly fangirl sobs.**

** So, tell me what you all think! Love it, hate it, meh?**

** Thank you for reading! And please review!**

** BTW, sorry that it's pretty short. I was going to make it longer, but figured that it was a good stopping point. The next chapter should be longer. Oh, and please tell me if there are any grammatical errors!**

** I love you all!  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: Who do you guys think the mother is?**


	2. Chapter One

** Disclaimer: I don't own anything, merely my own wishful thinking and fangirl feels. Woe is me.**

* * *

**Three Hours Before**

"Master Grayson, enough of your slouching. It is rather unbecoming of a young man with your status."

"Sorry Alfie. But do I _**have**_ to go?"

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid you do. You've only just taken the reins of Wayne Enterprises in Master Bruce's…_**absence**_ and I daresay the press will be crazed by your involvement with this charity."

Dick let out a long suffering groan, running a hand through his glossy black hair. A grimace snuck onto his features. His hair was shorter than it had been in the past few years, in order to accommodate the restriction of the cowl, and he was still getting used to it.

"But why _**Europe**_?" he complained petulantly. "We should be back in Gotham, Alfie. Things still need to be cleaned up."

The butler in question raised a single eyebrow, giving his young charge a chastising look. "Master Richard," he started primly. "Must I give you the same lecture Master Bruce always received?"

Dick looked away, out the window of his master suite towards where London's iconic Big Ben stood resolutely. Sadness colored his blue eyes a shade darker than before, highlighting the well-disguised bruises of exhaustion that plagued his expression. A sigh escaped his parted lips, and he slowly shook his head in answer to the previous question.

"No, Alfred," he commented heavily, eyes drawn to the saturation of pinks and oranges that followed the descent of the sun on the horizon. Shooting the always-professional English butler a beaming smile, which effectively hid his exhaustion once more, he continued in a cheery fashion much like his typical disposition. "I'll be a good little billionaire! Wouldn't want to disappoint all the lovely ladies," he waggled his eyebrows.

"Of course not, sir," Alfred agreed. "I assume I do not need to remind you of your manners?"

"Only if I have too much to drink," Dick remarked with a cheeky smirk.

"What am I ever to do with you, Master Richard?' the gentleman's gentleman rolled his eyes heavenward, before finishing up with the young man's tie.

True to his form, Dick let out a warm chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the pleasant sound. Alfred held out his Armani suit jacket, helping the younger man into it, before professionally straightening it for him. With a scowl, the heir for one of the world's largest corporations tried to loosen his tie, but his hand was lightly slapped away by the English butler.

"No more fidgeting, Master Richard," he chided. "Now, go out and _**enjoy**_ yourself. Strike up a conversation, have a few drinks, not to many, need I remind you? And, above all else, sir, _**don't**_ make a fool of yourself," the butler sighed in barely concealed exasperation.

That earned him a pout. "It was only a few times, Alfie," Dick grumbled. "And I promise not to show-off anymore in front of the press," he added, sounding like a child in a time-out.

"Very good, sir," Alfred nodded. "Now, shall we be on our way? You have a party to attend."

"And we'll be arriving fashionably late," Dick grinned.

* * *

"I'll be waiting in the car should you require my services, Master Richard," the ever-loyal butler bid his charge farewell.

"Thanks, Alfie," Dick smiled gratefully.

At that, Richard Grayson, better known as 'Richie Wayne' by the leading members of society that surrounded him, was left alone in a sea of strangers. He had attended galas, and charities, and everything else before, but he had always had _**someone**_ with him, at the very least. Typically, he went to such social gatherings with Bruce, although he had been known to arrive at several with Babs or Tim in the past.

Unfortunately, he was on his own.

No one had really been available to go to England with him for his impromptu 'vacation'. And by that, he meant that no one had _**wanted**_ to leave Gotham. Or maybe they simply didn't wish to spend all that time with him. It seemed to be a growing problem in Dick's life, one that he wasn't especially _**use**_ to. He considered himself a pretty nice guy, maybe 'overly affectionate' or 'quirky' in some people's eyes, but decent enough company altogether. So, why was it that he had been all but alone for the past few weeks?

After their latest falling out, Barbara wouldn't even stop to give Dick the time, unless, of course, it was as Batman and Oracle, in which the redhead had already saved his life dozens of times. Jason was around…_**somewhere**_, but Dick didn't know where, and he figured that Jason would never _**want**_ him to know where. Cass had moved out to Hong Kong after Bruce's death, and hadn't really stayed in touch with her family lately (not on lack of trying from Dick's side, he might add). Tim had stormed off after Dick had taken up the cowl, refusing to believe Bruce's untimely departure and was currently off in some Middle Eastern country trying to find clues, while Steph had since gone off to join her close friend in the pursuit.

He blamed the cowl. It was some sort of ancient curse, he just _**knew**_ it. While, yes, he had in fact gotten into _**plenty**_ of arguments and fights with his family over the years, never before had it been with every single one of them at once. Nor had it ever been when he was working as the Batman. So, the most logical cause was the cowl itself. Maybe that's what being Batman was all about. Not the fear, or the paranoia, or even the admittedly awesome weapons and gadgets.

No, being Batman was about being alone.

But being Richie Wayne was all about looking good for the camera and charming the pants off of people, quite literally at times. And that's what he was there to do, not to feel sorry for himself. Self-pity never did look good on him, and he was man enough to admit that maybe, just _**maybe**_, he cared a bit much for his image, at least concerning his social standing among the socialite peers he had been forced to mingle with.

"Richard?" a vaguely familiar voice called over the din of the charity gathering. "Richie!" the person called again once they confirmed it was him.

"Louis?" Dick smiled, turning to face the recognizable young man that was roughly his own age. "It's been _**years**_ since I last saw you, Lou!"

Louis in question let out a comfortable bark of laughter, taking Dick's proffered hand and immediately pulling the raven-haired man into a quick friendly hug. "Jeez, it has been a while, man, hasn't it?" he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your eighteenth party, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, when you spiked the punch and got the both of us in trouble," Dick laughed openly, Louis soon joining in unabashedly.

"So how've you been, Dick?" the English white-collar boy wondered genuinely. "Heard your old man passed down the business to you while he's off around the world. That must be a pretty rough change," he offered sympathetically.

Louis Cathcart was the twenty-three year old son of Charles Cathcart, a leading business tycoon in Europe most well-known for his shipping company. Cathcart Industries had long been a good partner and ally with Wayne Enterprises, and Louis had been one of the few and far between friends of Dick's that _**hadn't**_ been a complete and utter brat. In fact, for all the pleasantries and niceties of his life, Louis was a rather down to Earth guy that was easy to get along with, and was someone that Dick had oftentimes pulled pranks with at socialite parties.

Dick barely held back a wince at the mention of his 'old man', but managed to plaster a believable grin on his face before Louis noticed his hesitation. "Yeah," he shrugged, casually placing his hands in his pants' pockets. They clenched into fists, thankfully unseen by anyone. "He decided to go and 'rediscover' himself, or something like that," Dick joked.

His only friend in the entire building laughed smoothly. "Mid-life crisis?" the Brit questioned with a knowing gleam in his verdant eyes.

"Don't tell him that," Dick whispered conspiratorially.

"Wouldn't dare," Louis agreed with faked somberness, before a smirk split his features. "My pops is going through the same thing," he related reassuringly. "He's trying to hand Cathcart Industries off to Junior."

"Your older brother?"

"The one and only," he rolled his eyes. "But Charlie is going to run the company into the ground," Louis scoffed. "My ten-year-old sister would have better luck than him."

"And you?" Dick wondered in honest curiosity.

Louis shrugged indifferently. "I'm not much one for business, but if dad came to his senses and realized that even _**I**_ would be better than Charlie, well, I wouldn't possibly argue," he reasoned with his patented aloof seriousness. "You, on the other hand, I'm positive can handle WE perfectly fine."

"Thanks, Lou. I could really use that," he grinned in relief.

"Everybody's trying to eat you up, aren't they?" the brunette Englishman cocked an arching eyebrow.

"What else would they possibly do with their lives?" Dick remarked playfully.

His friend seemed to honestly consider the question. "Watch Jersey Shore?"

Both of them descended into laughter, until a waiter with a serving dish of champagne walked past, wearing a distinctly disdainful look upon his weathered face. Dick grabbed two high-end flutes filled with the amber liquid, handing one of them to the brunette beside him. They joking called off 'cheers' before sipping at the thankfully numbing drink. It was an unspoken agreement that they'd both need at least a buzz to survive the 'Action for Africa' charity.

"Richie Wayne," a seductive voice interrupted the young men, causing both of them to look over at a curvaceous figure nearby. "We meet at last."

Dick had to suppress a shiver at just how predatory the statement sounded. But the voluptuous woman seemed harmless enough, if not overly-flirty and showing just a bit too much skin. Her long blonde hair hung in carefully styled waves, cascading over her shoulders and framing her much-too-obvious cleavage. She was tall and leggy, and with her towering heels she ended up being just slightly taller than Dick (who was once more cursing his knack for being vertically challenged).

"Amelia Bennett," 'Richie' immediately recognized the beautiful woman, sending her a flirtatious smile to go with his playboy image. "I've heard nothing but glowing praise about you," he continued unashamedly, offering his hand to her palm up.

She delicately placed her hand on his, and he elegantly raised it to his lips to press a lingering kiss on her milky white skin. A girlish giggle and a light blush followed his gentlemanly acts, and Amelia eyed Dick with a distinctly dangerous glint in her deep brown irises.

He had to consciously remind himself that it was a different kind of dangerous. Amelia wasn't going to chop off his head, or bite off any of his fingers, or any other sort of crazed, demented action that he'd expect from some Gotham psychopath. She simply had the hots for him, and was still yet incapable at concealing it very well. Dick vaguely wondered if that's how Bruce ever felt.

_Stop it, Grayson,_ he groaned to himself. _Comparing yourself to him all the time is just going to leave you all emotional and crap. You don't need that right now._

"My, my, Mr. Wayne," Amelia commented appreciatively, "you look _**much**_ more handsome in person."

"Please," Dick waved his hand casually. "Call me Dick. Mr. Wayne was my father."

A commotion from the main stage of the fundraiser started up over the crowd, causing Dick and his two companions to turn towards the source. Dick offered his arm to Amelia, remembering Alfred's earlier warning about manners, and led her and Louis to join the gathering crowd. Mr. Ellington, the sponsor and host of the 'Action for Africa' charity, was just about to give his big speech and give out thinly veiled thanks to everyone in attendance.

Such a typical occurrence that Dick didn't even consider being suspicious.

At least, not until all the windows exploded and familiar black-clad figures dropped into the room. The effect was instantaneous. Screams erupted from the normally composed socialites and a stampede was already in the works. Heels and loafers alike went flying as everyone settled into panic and attempted to shove their way to safety. Knowing that he had to keep up his image, Dick hesitantly blended into the crowd and tried his best not to stumble and fall.

The ninja were wreaking havoc. They had instantly gone for Mr. Ellington, more than likely just for show than anything. After all, Dick reasoned, what would the League of Assassins possibly want with an unimportant business tycoon? Unless they were secretly planning something. _**Again.**_

Why couldn't he ever catch a break?

"Master Richard!" an achingly familiar voice cried over the crowd.

Dick, having thankfully managed to get to the edge of the stampede, pinpointed whoever had spoken. He made quick work of reaching the only slightly frazzled butler, who was shielded in a conveniently placed side hallway. Alfred tossed an inconspicuous briefcase to his young charge, and Richie Wayne soon disappeared into the shadows.

He always hated changing in public, but the Batsuit was too heavy and bulky to effectively wear underneath any of his clothes (yet another change that he detested about the switch from Nightwing to Batman). It took longer than it ever had with his Nightwing suit, but he was still fully dressed within minutes and exiting the hallway to join the battle. All in all, the Batsuit weighed down on him oppressively, and he knew that he was going to be exhausted after dealing with the ninja assassins.

_Honestly, how had Bruce __**ever**__ dealt with all this?_

Ten ninja. Two were occupied with Mr. Ellington. Five were on 'crowd control', efficiently terrorizing everyone. And three were headed in his direction, swords held expertly and aimed for him.

The first swing was always the easiest to dodge, and he smoothly rolled to the side, letting fly two batarangs. They hit their intended target, causing the trained assassin to drop her hold on the sword. It clattered to the ground, but not before the other two lunged for him. Ducking one blade and catching the other with the spikes on his gauntlet, he lashed out with one foot and swept the legs out from under one assassin to knock them aside, while simultaneously catching the other with a well-placed elbow to the nose.

Blood dripped from the assassin's nose, and she was temporarily thrown off guard, but these were professionals. Dick needed to up the ante if he wanted to come out of this alive. He attacked before she could regain her bearings, kneeing her in the gut and smashing her head into the wall with a sickening crack. One down, nine to go.

The next advance was felt more than seen or heard, and Dick reacted accordingly. Backflipping to land behind the two assassins that had been about to attack, he leaped into the air and performed an aerial straddles, effectively knocking out two ninja with one stone. Well, they weren't exactly knocked out, so Dick had to follow through with a joint-lock and a full shoulder throw to one, and a violent upwards hammerblow to the other. And that was two and three.

Still seven left.

This was not going well. Bruce would have already been done with at _**least**_ five of them.

_Focus, Grayson, you damn fool! You've got more important problems!_

But his lapse in concentration screwed him over, and he found himself on the receiving end of a well-placed kick to the back of his head. He rolled with the impact, digging his heels into the ground to stop and straighten himself back up. They didn't give him the chance to recover. Swords swung violently in his direction, one or two catching on his suit and tearing through past his flesh. Lashing out with a powerful right hook and sweep kick, he vaulted over his gathering opponents' heads. His feet made contact with one of the black-clad figures, and he used them as a springboard to give him momentum that powered his next spin kick.

Four succumbed to the kick. Five followed shortly after.

Halfway done.

A steel-toed boot connected with his jaw. He might've heard a faint crack, although it was hard to tell with the adrenaline rushing through his veins. The two that had previously been harassing Mr. Ellington had abandoned him in favor of attacking Dick, leaving him to face off one against five. And the odds were _**not**_ in his favor. If he wanted to survive, he'd have to divide and conquer. And get to more familiar turf.

Where else to go but up? Dick was very much an aerial fighter. So he quickly grappled onto the huge art display that spanned the height of three stories, knowing that the remaining assassins would follow him. It was becoming more and more apparent that the ninja were focused on him. And that he had been the intended target all along.

"This is flattering and all, but you guys really shouldn't have visited," he commented roughly, dodging a sword that had been _**thrown**_ at him and retaliating with a spinning hook kick.

As always, the assassins stayed resolutely silent. More than anyone, their kind were the worst at not talking back to him. Brick walls were more entertaining.

Scratch that. Brick walls were _**not**_ more entertaining, especially not when you were the one being thrown into one.

A sword slashed across his stomach, and he just barely managed to avoid another strike to his neck, leaping out of the way and clinging to the mobile that served as the centerpiece of the cavernous room. He kept his footing, only just, and landed a snap kick straight at an assailant's temple. The kick itself just threw the ninja off balance, but the fall three stories down did the rest of the work for him. He didn't give himself time to feel guilty, instead concentrating on the four remaining.

Four left. That was doable, even if he was bleeding a bit profusely then.

At least, he had _**thought**_ it would be doable, until their collective efforts sent his head reeling and his vision darkening. A blade cut roughly into his arm, closely followed by a diagonal knee strike across his chest and a roundhouse to one of his eyes. The final blow was an open palm achingly shoved right into his solar plexus, which, although mightily protected by his suit's armor, still managed to leave him breathless and light-headed.

His vision was quickly narrowing, even past the restricted view of the cowl. Thoughts became incoherent and garbled, as he lost his footing and tumbled from the art piece. He fumbled for his grapple, but his fingers were stiff and heavy and wouldn't cooperate. There was nothing he could do, and now he was the plaything of the League of Assassins. If they decided to keep him alive.

_Shit._

* * *

**Word Count: 3,194**

** A/N: So there's some background knowledge of how Dick came to be in the League's hands, just in case you were wondering! Oh, and I got a few ideas from 'Batman and Son' by Grant Morrison, so if you notice anything, that's what it's from. In the story, Bruce Wayne is not believed to be dead by the world, and is instead thought to be traveling, which is why Louis brought it up.**

** I know I'm terrible at writing fight scenes, but what did you think about it? I'd really like to hear your thoughts!**

** And Oh. My. God. You guys! Have you all heard about Batman vs. Superman? I'm so excited for it! **_**Especially**_** if the rumor about Dick being in it is true! Dudes, I will die of happiness if they include Nightwing! Bonus points if his butt is everything we've been hoping for!**

** Oh, and I hate people. Just the other day I had to explain to my friends that John Blake was **_**not**_** the real Robin and how he was just some stupid knockoff that nobody cared about.**

** They are so clueless about comic books.**

** Shout outs to: MarissaTodd, REBD, ficlover1, roy23, soccernin19, RisaaChan, Shiroi Misa, and . for adding or favoriting! Special thanks to omgmoar, soccernin19, . , and MarissaTodd for reviewing!**

** Anyway! Enough with all that! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and that it wasn't too terrible! Please review and add and favorite and all that jazz!**

** Love you all!  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: How does Alfred always know when to show up?**


	3. Chapter Two

**It occurred to me that I haven't clarified everyone's ages, and I know that with comic-aging, that can get kind of hectic. So, I'm just going to list the characters' ages now.  
Alfred: Ancient (67, but that doesn't matter because Alfred Pennyworth doesn't age)  
Bruce: Middle-Aged (dead…sorry, I meant 43)  
Dick: Teenage Girl (22…mentally 5)  
Jason: Drunken Minor (18, or 16(?) since he was dead for a bit?)  
Cass: Young Padawan (18; is she even going to be in this?)  
Tim: Nancy Drew (17…bring on the Condom Man jokes)  
Steph: Identity Crisis (16; I'm having way too much fun with this)  
Dami: Baby Assassin (2…how precious is that?)  
I think that's everyone? If not, the other characters will be introduced in-story, or you can just assume based off of these ages.  
And yes, DC, if you want to keep aging the Boy Wonders, that means that Bruce has to as well. He can't be in his early-to-mid thirties if his eldest son is already twenty-some.**

**Disclaimer: Alas, I hold no power over the creatures of DC Comics. If I did, the New 52 wouldn't exist, Dick and Dami would be the Dynamic Duo, and Dickie wouldn't be in danger of dying in Forever Evil.**

** Damn Batsgiving conspiracies.**

* * *

The slight purr of the Batmobile's engine was the only noise that broke the heavy silence, and Dick made a mental note to check the motor when he got the chance. Even the quietest sound wasn't permitted for the legendary car. He would just add that to the ever-growing to do list that was rapidly filling the entirety of his head. Sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye towards the passenger seat, he noticed the rigidly silent figure beside him.

_Car seats,_ he reminded himself. _Got to get car seats. Alfred is going to kill me for not having car seats._

They were closing in on the Bat-bunker, the familiar streets of Gotham providing a sense of security (as odd as that sounded, even in his own head) to the frazzled young man. He drove almost completely on instinct, something he knew better than to do, but an act that he simply could not force himself to quit. It was easier to have room to think. And he needed _**a lot**_ of room to think, especially with the latest turn of events.

Damian still hadn't moved. It _**unnerved**_ him. Why was the kid so still? At that age, Dick, even though he couldn't remember it, knew that he had been a nonstop bouncing ball of energy. He still was, in fact. But the toddler seated next to him hadn't so much as _**twitched**_ since they had gotten into the Batmobile. His arms were crossed over his chest, his steely-eyed gaze directed at the dashboard that was parallel to his field of vision, and his back was resolutely straight, not even grazing the leather seat. Only the steady rise and fall of his stomach assured Dick that he was still alive.

And that had been going on for _**hours**_.

Ever since they had departed from Talia's super-secret underground lair in London, in fact. After she had introduced Dick to his son for the first time, Talia had quickly left alongside the majority of her ninja and man-bats (somewhere off in the Himalayas, she claimed), leaving the father and son alone with only a handful of opponents. Truthfully, Dick might've been able to escape at that point, but he had been going through 'daddy-shock', and it's not like he could've left the kid behind. So instead Dick had allowed himself to be effectively blind-folded. Minutes later, he had found himself unceremoniously dumped on a drone plane with his silent and pouting son.

After a three hour flight, and many rejected conversation starters, the plane had landed in a remote part of New Jersey. Where Dick had found the Batmobile conveniently hidden. He had decided not to ask how it had gotten there. Especially since he hadn't known how the kid had gotten there either. He knew even less about the League of Assassins than he had thought.

That was a terrifying realization.

He had contacted Alfred, who was thankfully back at the penthouse safely, on the flight over, informing the loyal butler to the situation at hand. Aside from the briefest hesitation and slight dash of shock in the elderly man's voice, he had taken everything completely in stride and had assured Dick that he would prepare everything that he could. They would have to do quite a bit of shopping, as there wasn't exactly an over-abundance of toddler necessities in the Wayne household.

Thankfully, the drive to the Bat-bunker was much shorter than the flight had been, and Dick was soon pulling into the clean, and admittedly empty, headquarters. He had already managed to get a few DNA samples from Damian, much to the toddler's utter displeasure, and had started a paternity test in the Batmobile's computer, the data having been sent straight to the Batcomputer. Dick realized that it was a very Batman thing to do first, but, well, he did have a reputation to keep up now, didn't he?

Didn't he?

"Master Richard, glad to see you return in one piece, sir," Alfred greeted professionally as Dick got out of the Batmobile and opened the door for Damian. "And I assume this is young Master Damian," he allowed his expression to soften, almost unnoticeably, and his eyes twinkled just a bit. It was no secret that Alfred rather enjoyed young children. No matter how hard they could be to care for, they were more often than not easier to handle than any member of the Bat Family.

Although, the young assassin may just prove that theory wrong.

"Yeah, Alfie," Dick nodded, slipping the cowl off of his face and watching the toddler beside him. "The Batcomputer is running a paternity test now," he added in a subdued voice. "We'll know whether or not Talia was lying within twenty-four hours."

Damian had since lost his scowl, more from lack of concentration than anything, as he was curiously looking about the underground facility. His deep blue eyes, the same ones that Dick saw in the mirror every day, were widened ever so slightly and wandered about the Bat-bunker with a sort of critical knowledge that seemed misplaced on his young features. Dick admitted that the bunker wasn't much. It wasn't as impressive, as expansive, as completely _**Batman**_ as the Batcave had been. There were no oversized props, no suit memorials for lost soldiers, and no decommissioned Batmobiles or Batplanes or Robin Cycles.

But the Batcave had been Bruce's, and the Bat-bunker was _**his**_.

He wanted to keep it that way, even if it meant that his suspected son wasn't all that impressed.

"So, what do you think of your new home, Damian?" Dick wondered cheerfully, sending a wide smile to the toddler.

Said child moved his head to make eye contact with Dick, his unnerving scowl immediately sliding into place once more. He scrunched his button-like nose with obvious disdain, turning his chin up and crossing his arms. A distinctive scoff slipped past his lips, sounding suspiciously like a toddler-sized 'tt'. At that, Damian stalked off down one of the hallways of the Bat-bunker, headed towards the weapons.

Dick's shoulders slumped, even though he knew he should've known better. But he had to admit that the child's obvious distaste for him stung a bit more than logical. He had always considered himself pretty good with kids; after all, you don't become everyone's favorite uncle without being fun, and he had oftentimes been the go-to guy for superhero babysitting. And now his own son would hardly even _**look**_ at him.

"Give it time, Master Richard," Alfred assured him, correctly interpreting the hopeless look in his charge's eyes. "I doubt the young master has ever been shown affection before, and it will take more than several hours of silence to teach him what it is," he observed astutely. Before Dick could reply, the kindly old butler ushered him along. "Now, go change out of that. I will tend to your wounds and then it's off to bed, for the both of you."

"Yes, Alfred," Dick gave in, knowing better than to argue with the elder man. "But Damian-"

"Rest assured, I will fetch the young master."

He was given no choice, and Dick decided to leave it at that and willingly trudge into the changing area of the Bat-bunker. Alfred could handle the two-year-old while he peeled the Batsuit off. As he unhooked the cape and cowl, Dick was half-tempted to just discard it on the floor. But he knew better than to do that, even if his protesting and aching muscles just wanted him to curl up on the ground and fall asleep. After wrestling with the cursed suit for an embarrassingly long amount of time, he was finally clad in just a pair of gym shorts.

Most of his wounds were thankfully superficial, the worst being a few nasty cuts that had long since stopped bleeding. Aside from those, his chest and face were littered with bruises and scrapes both new and old. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before.

A great crash and a surprised shout came from further in the Bat-bunker, sending Dick on alert immediately. Ignoring the painful strain it put on his already sore muscles, he took off at a dead sprint towards the sound. He noticed with dread that it had come from the weapons area, where Alfred and Damian had last been. Worst case scenarios began running through his head, even though most of them were all but impossible.

What he saw, though, was more surprising than anything he had imagined. Alfred was on the ground, back up against the wall, and quickly advancing on him was a toddler with a samurai sword. Thinking on his feet like he had been taught, Dick grabbed another ornate sword that was nearby, and intercepted Damian's violent downwards strike before any blood was spilled. Dick expertly twisted his sword in his one-handed grip, effectively disarming the sour-faced toddler.

But Damian would have none of it, and immediately the pint-sized fighter launched himself at his father. Much to the experienced crime fighter's chagrin, the toddler actually managed to land a solid kick to Dick's already bruised shin, followed up by a punch to the kneecap. It wasn't very painful, all considering everything that Dick had been through in his career, but Damian's strength was rather surprising and caught Dick off guard for a fraction of a second. Nevertheless, the vigilante unceremoniously tossed his own sword aside and grabbed the violent child, instantly maneuvering him into a relatively painless joint-lock and hold combo.

"Alfred, are you okay?" Dick checked in a desperate rush.

"Quite," the butler confirmed primly, straightening himself and brushing off his suit jacket. "I apologize for worrying you, sir. I have taken worse than this, but the young master surprised me with his vigor." At that, Alfred regarded the struggling toddler with calm acceptance. "Now, Master Richard, allow me to tend to your wounds."

The incident now forgotten, Dick allowed himself to be led over to the bunker's med-bay. Damian was still in his arms and was persistently fighting against Dick's hold on him. Although unexpectedly strong and better trained than they had expected, Dick was _**not**_ going to let a two-year-old beat him. As Alfred gathered up the required medical supplies, the younger man cautiously set Damian down onto one of the medical beds.

Almost instantly, the young assassin-trained boy lashed out with a well-aimed roundhouse kick, which would've struck Dick's temple had he not easily grabbed Damian's ankle. The boy let out a frustrated scream, one of the first noises that he had uttered since meeting his father, and retaliated with a right hook. That was quickly blocked as well.

"Damian," Dick tried to gain the toddler's attention by using his 'stern voice', the one that he utilized when the Justice League destroyed too much public property or when the Titans got into superficial spats.

The voice that usually had Bruce internally rolling his eyes and chuckling fondly.

_Bad, Grayson,_ he mentally chastised himself. _Now is __**not**__ the time for reminiscing._

But Damian did nothing, except redouble his efforts until Dick had to physically restrain him in a joint-lock hold once again. And then he began furiously screeching like a baby dinosaur.

"Alfred," the young man called in helplessness. "What do I do?"

"Allow me, Master Grayson," Alfred stepped up, carefully prepping a small syringe. "Hold him still, if you would," he nodded to the screaming, thrashing child.

Dick willingly complied, using one arm to lightly force Damian's own up, and the other to hold down his legs. It was effective, but caused the toddler to cough on his own screams, a sound that practically reduced Dick's heart to shattered glass. Assassin or no, Damian was still a _**kid**_, still a _**baby**_.

The loyal butler quickly injected the sleep-inducing compound into the toddler's bloodstream, and the two adults patiently waited the few minutes for the agent to kick in. Once it did, the effect was near immediate, and the screaming child was replaced with a calmly slumbering one. Had it not been for the obvious assassin robes that he was clad in or the previous memories of the boy, he could've easily been mistaken for an angel in his unconsciousness.

Delicately laying him down, Dick then turned to the other medical bed and settled down on the edge. He put his head in his hands, letting his hair brush over his skin and cover his vision. "Knocking out _**two**_-year-olds, Alfie," he observed. "What's become of us?"

"Only the necessary, sir," Alfred assured him, not unkindly, as he began to treat the wounds on his young charge's back.

"What are we going to _**do**_ with him?" Dick continued miserably. "He's a two-year-old _**assassin**_! Trained by the League! For all we know, he could've been trained specifically to kill us!"

"He is still young, Master Grayson," the butler pointed out, patiently taking Dick's desperation in stride. "He is still _**impressionable**_. We will be patient, and we will be diligent. Whether his is your son or not, he deserves a chance. Don't you agree, sir?"

Properly chastened in a way that only Alfred could accomplish, Dick nodded out an agreement. "But…_**how**_? He isn't exactly your typical kid, Alf."

"They never are, sir."

"What's _**that**_ supposed to mean?" Dick retorted petulantly, straightening so that Alfred could finish patching him up. "It's not like _**I**_ ever tried to kill you!"

"Perhaps not on purpose, Master Richard, but I do recall the number of near heart attacks I suffered from your…_**unexpected**_ antics."

The two lapsed into silence, Alfred focused on tending to Dick's wounds, while the younger man found himself gazing at the toddler's unconscious figure. Damian was on his back, limbs completely slack and near-lifeless, while his round face lolled off to the side, in the direction of his alleged father. He looked so peaceful in sleep, so innocent. So not assassin-like. His young features were free of any anger or hostility, and his muscles were relaxed, not in the previous tension that came with fighting.

"Alfred?" Dick broke the companionable quiet.

"Yes, sir?"

Dick pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying the soft skin before deciding to speak up once more. "Talia mentioned something else, something that didn't have to do with Damian. But…she said it so _**cryptically**_."

"She always does, Master Richard," Alfred confirmed steadily.

"I don't know what she meant. And I don't know how to find out."

Alfred gave him a soothing and understanding look. "I have nothing but faith that you will figure it out, sir. You have always been rather apt at solving such puzzles."

"But this one was different, Alfie. She said that I still didn't know the truth, even after all these years; that I was _**missing**_ something."

"About what, Master Richard?"

"The night the Graysons fell."

Silence permeated the heavy air, and the English butler hesitated for a fraction of a second. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Dick to notice and take note of it. But Alfred just as quickly returned to the task at hand. Dick was all fixed up, leaving the elder gentleman to finish putting everything away.

"That is quite unusual. Miss al Ghul is not one for dredging up such things."

"She didn't say anything else. Just that some things had already been set into motion, and that those things couldn't be stopped. What did she mean?" he wondered desperately.

"I'm afraid I don't know, Master Grayson," Alfred replied softly. "Perhaps you should sleep on it," he suggested.

"Yeah. Thanks, Alfie," he nodded slowly, slipping off of the edge of the medical bed and stepping over to where Damian was sleeping. Just as he was about to scoop up the toddler, a treacherous and terrifying thought struck him. "Alfred!" Dick just barely kept himself from shouting, spinning on his heel to face the older man.

"Yes, Master Richard?" the graying gentleman questioned with a cocked eyebrow, once again surprising Dick with his infinite patience.

"How am I going to _**tell**_ everyone?"

"You will think of something, sir," Alfred assured the frazzled and stressed young man. "No matter how you decide to break the news, I believe it best you do not wait for the press to do so _**for**_ you."

"They'll freak!"

"Only as much as you are, sir."

"That's still too much!"

"Agreed, Master Richard."

"But what do I say? 'Oh yeah, this is my illegitimate son, who was raised by ninja and is actually a two-year-old assassin'?"

"The truth is always the best policy."

Dick all but slumped in his position, resting his hands on the medical bed before him and leaning the majority of his weight on it. His dark blue eyes were trained on the naturally tanned skin of the toddler near him. It occurred to him that his so-called son had inherited his own skin tone, only perhaps a shade deeper (no doubt due to his time spent in the Middle East). Dick was becoming more and more convinced that Damian truly was his son.

He suddenly had an almost overwhelming urge to cry.

But he was the Batman. And Batman didn't cry. So he wouldn't. He would stay strong, and he would support the weight of the world on his shoulders and keep on going. Because that's what Batman did.

And he was Batman.

"What would Bruce do?" Dick whispered, his voice echoing softly in the Bat-bunker.

"I think the question here, Master Richard, is not what Master Bruce would do, but rather what _**you**_ will do."

As if in answer to the wise words, Dick nodded and gently slid his arms under Damian's back and knees. The defenseless toddler twitched and his muscles automatically tensed, as if his body physically rejected any form of contact. A shiver traveled up Dick's spine. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, and he subconsciously pulled his son closer to his chest, eliciting another slight twitch.

"I believe a night's rest will due you some good, Master Richard," Alfred observed sagely, leading the dark-haired man to the elevator that would deliver them to the penthouse. "I have a room prepared for the young master, but supplies will need to be bought at a more opportune time."

"Hmm," Dick hummed in quiet agreement. "I don't think I'm ready for this. I can hardly take care of _**myself**_, Alfie," he spoke up when the doors slid shut behind them.

"Out of all the people I have met, Master Richard, I don't believe anyone would be as qualified to raise the young master as you."

"What makes you say that?"

"Young Master Damian needs more than just a guiding hand, or a firm rock to rely on. The young master requires someone to show him, to _**teach**_ him life itself. And I have never met one as full of life as you, sir."

Dick was rendered mute for several fleeting moments, staring in awed disbelief at the elderly man beside him. "Thank you," he replied quietly, not completely trusting his voice from the tightness in his throat. "But I'm still going to need a lot of help, Alfie."

"I know, Master Richard. I know."

* * *

**Word Count: 3,195**

**A/N: Sweet! Chapter three (or technically two? do prologues count as chapters?) up already! I love writing this story so far! And all your lovely reviews are making me so happy! :)**

** And yes, Damian's known his father for a few hours and has already tried to kill Pennyworth. I can't wait to introduce the other characters *insert evil grin here*.**

** I'm thinking of posting every Friday. What do you guys think? And what about chapter length? Is this okay? Typically, I try to write more (like around 5,000-6,000 words), but lately these chapters have just been ending themselves, and who am I to argue?**

** Shout-outs to: Alalaya2, Evening Raven, FlightfootKeyseeker, Robotic Worm, , and roguelover321 for adding to their alerts or to favorites! And special thanks to MarissaTodd, ProtectorKorii, and soccernin19 for reviewing!**

** Anyway, I haven't really got much to say this time…Stay safe, don't do drugs, try not to talk to creepy strangers, and never eat yellow snow.**

** It may look like lemon flavored snowcones.**

** But it's not.**

** It never is.**

** Thanks for reading! And please review!**

** You Are Wonderful,  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: How is Dick going to break the news to his expansive network of correspondents?**


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: I. Own. Nothing. But my lawyers are still battling for Alfred. Fingers crossed!**

** Warning: Angst. And my OTP.**

* * *

He was beaten down, trodden on, and completely exhausted. Every muscle screamed out in protest whenever he so much as twitched, his eyes were leaden in weight, and he could hardly walk in a straight line. Excluding the brief periods of forced unconsciousness, the last time he had rested was nearly three whole days ago. Even then, he simply couldn't sleep.

His tired eyes were trained resolutely on the phone in his hand. The alarm clock on his bedside table told him that it was two in the morning. He had been staring unseeingly at the device in his hand for nearly an hour, after a previous hour of tossing and turning in bed. On the lit screen before him, the contacts were pulled up, the selected one such a familiar name that it nearly drove a blade through his heart.

Against all reasoning and logic, his thumb moved on its own will and pressed the call button. Half of him wanted to shout for joy at having finally done the deed, and the other half wanted to bash his head into the wall. With a shaking and unsteady hand, he raised his phone to his ear. Seconds passed in silence, before the ringing started up. He waited with baited breath, bottom lip worried between his teeth. His free hand was clenched into a fist around the rumpled sheets around him and his knees bounced so that he could focus on something, _**anything**_ besides the anxiety rushing through his veins.

The call went to voicemail.

Dick hung up without leaving a message, before going back and redialing the number. Once more, the dreaded ringing echoed in his head. It went on for what felt like hours, dragging past with painful slowness, until going to voicemail again. He silently cursed, swallowed past the lump in his throat, and hung up. The redial button was pressed.

No one picked up. Instead, the call was completely dropped even before the ringing was done.

He felt the urge to throw the phone, smash it against the wall, and then maybe let his head go after it. But, rather than doing that, Dick went back to his contacts list and found the next trusted name. His finger hesitated a fraction of a second, before firmly pressing the button. Phone against his ear, breath steadfastly held in his lungs, he waited impatiently. Nothing. He tried again. Voicemail. Third time's a charm. The receiving phone had been turned off.

The urge to smash the phone was reduced to merely crying. He wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs, and then proceed to sob into his pillow like a little baby. But he wasn't a baby. He was more resourceful than that. So what if they wouldn't pick up their civilian phones? Maybe they needed silence for something, or maybe they were sleeping and hadn't been woken up, or maybe they lost their phones.

_Please, Grayson,_ the pessimistic side of his mind scoffed cruelly, realistically. _The calls were purposefully dropped. They'd have to have their phones with them in order to do that._

Shoving the thought aside, along with all the damned impulses to let the tears fall, he furiously scrolled through the near-endless names. He found the third one that he needed, and quickly pressed it before he could change his mind. It rang a total of four times, before going to a voicemail that was already full (more than likely thanks to previous messages left by him). He tried again, trying to remain optimistic. Maybe they just hadn't reached their phone in time? Still nothing. The fourth number was the last he could think of at the time, and he hesitantly initiated the call. Ringing. Voicemail. Hang up.

Maybe they'd call back once they realized it was him. It was pretty late, or rather early, so maybe they were all sleeping.

Except they were all nocturnal by nature, trained to be instantly awake at any given moment. So why wouldn't they wake up to answer their phones? Tim was a light sleeper, Steph kept her phone on the loudest level possible, Cass woke up to _**anything**_, and Babs was way more careful than that.

Why wasn't anyone answering?

_Because you're Batman now,_ he told himself dejectedly. _Being Batman means being alone._

But…_**why**_? They were called the Bat _**Family**_, weren't they? And sure, maybe he had been the one to coin that term, back when it had only been him, and Bruce, and Alfred, but everyone else had accepted it so easily. They had accepted the title, so why not the responsibilities? But, the truth was, they _**had**_ taken the responsibilities. Everyone _**had**_. The family, the League, the Titans. The entire hero community. When Batman called on someone, they came almost immediately.

So, where was everyone?

He _**hated**_ the feeling that plagued him, so familiar and almost-but-not-quite forgotten that it tore all his old wounds open. It was like when he had left Robin behind and gone to Bludhaven for the first time. So lost, and alone, and completely confused, and he just hadn't know what to _**do**_. But, at that time, he had had another family, the Titans. They helped him gain his footing, they helped him become Nightwing, they helped him grow up.

And now there was no one. Because, when Batman called, everyone came running. But when the Replacement Batman, the Fake Batman, the _**Weaker**_ Batman called, no one was there.

As Robin, he had been _**arrogant**_. As Nightwing, he had been _**confident**_. As Batman, he was _**inadequate**_.

And as Dick Grayson, he was _**broken**_.

He had spent years, _**years**_, building relationships, strengthening bonds, forming a _**family**_. The one thing that he could do that _**Batman**_ never could. He had started the Titans, led them, _**loved**_ them. He had worked with the League, kept them on their toes, been taken in by them. He had trained the younger heroes, helped them, shaped them into the fine people that they were. He had put his _**everything**_ into it. Not just into crime fighting, but crime _**preventing**_. The stronger as a community they were, the more likely they were to win. And he had given his all to make them as powerful together as possible.

But, the second the cowl came into the equation, everything crumbled. Fourteen years of hard work, his _**life's work**_, down the drain. Just because he took up a legacy bigger than him, just because he went by a name feared by so many, just because the cape was _**too damn heavy **_and the cowl _**hindered his sight**_.

After fourteen years of trying to be the exact opposite, he was the Batman.

And the Batman worked best alone. That's what Bruce had told him whenever he had gotten angry, whenever Dick had been inadequate as Robin, or insubordinate as Nightwing, or downright frustrating as Dick Grayson. He had always believed that it had simply been Bruce's anger speaking. But he was beginning to see the truth in the statement. Being alone meant having no expectations or delusions of camaraderie.

_Stop it, Grayson,_ he scolded himself harshly, only just noticing the tears that trailed down his cheeks and the shakes that plagued his shoulders. _You're tearing yourself up like this. You know better. You live off people, you need them to thrive. Don't push away from them __**now**__, not when you need them most._

Right. Fifth phone number. He found it, breathed in a deep gulp of air, and pressed the button. The ringing started, sounding slower than usual, as if it was purposely dragging the pain on. If _he_ didn't pick up, then Dick truly was alone. And the very thought of being alone made him wish he were six feet under alongside his parents.

It was on the final ring. It was going to go to voicemail, and Dick would be left to cry out his heart and soul all alone, surrounded by treasures and superficial niceties that had been bought by his dead adoptive dad's money and the gaping emptiness that plagued the halls of the Wayne Clan ever since the rest of the family had deserted.

Someone picked up.

"_Dude_," an achingly familiar voice mumbled, heavy and slurred with sleep. _"I know you're nocturnal and all, but this is a bit ridiculous."_

He nearly cried.

Actually, he did. But he managed to muffle it enough that the only person who answered wouldn't hear.

"Wally," Dick choked out past the tears and tightness in his chest. His free hand ran through his hair and tugged at it uselessly. It was still too short.

There was silence on both sides for a short time, and Dick nearly panicked, thinking that even his best friend had deserted him.

_"What's wrong?" _the Scarlet Speedster was instantly serious, all traces of sleep gone from his voice.

"I-I don't know w-what to _**do**_, anymore," he just barely kept himself from outright sobbing, even though he knew that Wally was the least likely to judge him for it.

_"Give me ten minutes. I'm on my way over."_

At that, the call was dropped, and Dick was once more plagued with loneliness.

Without warning, the smart phone slipped from his shaking hand, bounced off the edge of the mattress and skid to a halt on the floor. He threaded his fingers into his inky black hair, bringing his knees to his bare chest and curling his body in on himself. His face was hidden against his knees, hidden from the world and all the fears and troubles that devastated him from the inside out. Tears slipped unchecked past his eyelids, growing in number until sobs were wracking throughout his entire body.

Time lost all sense, and he wasn't sure how long he sat there, but soon enough a familiar presence settled down on the mattress beside him. A comforting arm was slung over his shaking shoulders, holding him close to someone's soothing warmth, which made him realize just how cold he had grown in the past hour or so. Still, the tears flowed freely, drenching his knees and arms with the icy wetness. The figure never wavered, never removed their arm from Dick's shoulders. He really appreciated that. He could count on one hand how many people he would willingly cry in front of. The one he had known the longest was dead. The second had nearly been killed by Dick's own son, and the third had just run over a thousand miles in minutes to come see him.

When he finally came back to his senses, the sobs quieted until he could breathe calmly, he wiped away the remaining tears and lifted his head up. There, sitting beside him on the edge of the mattress, was a sympathetic and concerned face littered with a multitude of freckles. The lean redhead was clad in hastily thrown on clothes and his hair was messily windswept. Catching Dick's waterlogged blue eyes with his own bright green ones, the young man tried offering a comforting smile. It fell flat between the two of them.

"Jeez, Dick," the redhead broke the silence. "You look like crap," he observed. "Why didn't you call sooner? And when was the last time you slept?"

Dick let out a heavy sigh and shrug, hanging his head in poorly disguised embarrassment. "I didn't think I needed to as much as I do."

Wally's sharp eyes watched him for a few passing moments. "What happened, dude?"

The raven-haired boy lowered his knees from his chest, settling into a cross-legged position and running a hand through his hair. He scrubbed at his face, trying to rid himself of the shame that covered him in a shroud. He couldn't do anything right anymore, could he?

_Quite being a baby, Grayson. You've faced worse than __**this**__._

"Alfred and I were in England," he started, clearing his throat to dispel the tremor in his voice. "For some big charity event. Alfie said I needed to get out more."

"Well, you haven't exactly left Gotham since you took up the cowl."

"Because Gotham is even more of a mess than usual," Dick defended himself. "But, anyway, I was there at the charity, when suddenly the place was attacked by ninja."

"Of course," Wally reasoned jokingly. "You simply can't leave the house without being attacked by someone, right?"

A quick smirk crossed Dick's features, before he fell back into his tale. "It wasn't my best fight-"

"You mean you got your ass handed to you."

"On a silver platter," Dick agreed. "And when I woke back up, I was being held hostage by _**ninja**_ _**man-bats**_ in an underground secret base. With Talia."

Wally whistled lowly. "You really can't ever catch a break, can you?"

"Just wait. It gets worse," he nodded darkly. "She led me to a training room, basically told me that I was an idiot, nearly gave me a lecture about destiny, and then introduced me to a two-year-old assassin."

"_**Two**_-year-old?" the speedster replied, eyes widened almost comically. "Didn't realize they were starting _**that**_ early."

"That's what I said," Dick rolled his eyes, attempting levity.

"And what did she say with that destiny crap?"

"Something or another about how things were already set in motion," the raven-haired boy remarked with a slight shrug. "The usual. But then she went on about…about the night the Graysons fell." His hands were shaking slightly again, tears welling in the back of his eyes. He'd thought that now, after fourteen years of crying, he wouldn't have any tears left. He was wrong. Again.

"That's rough, man," Wally admitted with a wince and a groan.

"There's more."

"Still? Dude, you really _**can't**_ catch a break."

"The two-year-old?" Dick started quietly. "He's my son. Allegedly, at least."

Stunned silence covered the room, broken only by the faint sounds of the city surrounding them. Dick's eyes were trained on his hands which were nestled in his lap, while his shocked friend found his widened eyes locked onto the city lights that shone through the wall-length windows of the penthouse master bedroom. The quiet was oppressive and heavy, bearing down on both of them with a weight threatening to crush their minds and bodies alike.

"Damn," Wally breathed out, receiving the faintest hint of a smile from his friend. "Just, _**damn**_. Do you know who-?"

"The mother is?" Dick guessed correctly. "No. Talia didn't say."

"Do you have any guesses?"

"Not really," he shrugged half-heartedly. "I wasn't too involved with anyone around that time, especially not anyone who would give their son up to the League of Assassins."

"Eugenics experiment?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"So, what do you know?"

"His name is Damian," Dick started softly. "He's been trained by the League of Assassins and he already packs a mean punch."

"…did you get punched by a two-year-old?"

"Not helping, Wally."

"Sorry, dude. But a _**toddler**_? Are you losing your touch, or something?"

"Very funny. But I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. He already tried to kill Alfred."

"No," Wally breathed out in disbelief. "You're kidding me!"

"Not even a little," Dick admitted.

"So, let me get this straight. Talia introduced you to your assassin son and so you brought him _**here**_?"

"What else was I supposed to do? Talia just dumped him on me, and it's not like I could exactly refuse and just _**leave**_ him there! Whether the paternity turns up positive or not, I can't just let him be raised as an _**assassin**_!"

Wally let out a sigh, but nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. Have you told the family?" he wondered, diverting the subject slightly.

Dick averted his gaze, instead focusing on the city skyline out the window. "I tried to," Dick murmured. "No one answered."

"Where'd they all head off to this time?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he replied dejectedly. "Babs is spending time with her mother in New York, Cass went over to Tokyo, and last I heard Tim and Steph were looking for Lazarus Pits in the Middle East."

"Any word from Jason?"

"None."

"You still shouldn't have waited so long to call," Wally chided. "You can always come to me, dude."

"Thanks Wally," Dick smiled in obvious relief.

"Anytime, bro," he assured, moving his arm to ruffle his friend's hair. He received a half-hearted grimace and gave a chuckle in reply. "So, do I get to meet the baby assassin?" Wally wondered in curiosity and excitement.

Dick looked a bit hesitant, but the familiar twinkle in his best friend's eyes quickly soothed his worry. "If you want to," he shrugged, climbing to his feet and stretching slightly. "He should still be out. We had to sedate him after he attacked Alfie," Dick explained, leading his friend out of the bedroom and to the highly secured door across the hall.

"Can't believe he actually attacked the Bat Butler," Wally breathed out. "I didn't think _**anyone**_ had the guts to do _**that**_."

"Neither did I," Dick admitted. "He went the whole nine yards, too. Had a samurai sword and everything," he continued, stopping at Damian's door.

"Full lockdown, huh?" Wally observed as Dick put in the keypad codes.

"The kid's a brat."

"Maybe it's genetic."

"You're hilarious, Wals."

"I try so hard, Dickie."

The door clicked, and Dick cautiously turned the doorknob to open it. Inside, it was dark, illuminated only by the city lights that cut through the windows. It was mostly bare, with only the necessities. A four poster bed dominated the area, while a few dressers and side tables were scattered along the walls. Dick knew that he'd have a _**lot**_ to buy for the kid: clothes, toys, parenting books. Normally, he would've scoffed at that last one, but he knew for a fact that Bruce had had plenty in his possession, and he'd been a pretty good father for Dick. Obviously, there was at least _**something**_ useful in those books.

Both of the young men wandered over to the bed in near silence, only the shuffling of Wally's feet heard in the quiet of the early morning. They stopped at the edge of the mattress, eyes trained on the innocent face of the slumbering boy there, still clad in his League of Assassins robes. The toddler in question was laying on top of the sheets, resting on his back with his limbs sprawled out, as if trying to take up all the space of the ginormous bed.

"His bed is bigger than _**mine**_," Wally noted, voice just barely above a whisper. His bright green eyes, which practically glowed in the darkness, keenly observed every feature he could in the gloom, mentally comparing it to the features of his best friend beside him.

"Perks of being a Gotham rich boy," Dick shrugged.

Wally was thoughtfully quiet for a few moments. "He looks like you."

Dick's eyes widened, and he looked at the young toddler with renewed interest. Sure, he had noticed a few similarities, but those were mostly superficial. After all, Dick shared black hair and blue eyes with the majority of the Bat Family, and yet none of them were related.

"I mean, I never knew you when you were two," Wally continued. "But he looks like you, especially when you were younger."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. That slight natural tan, the tiny frame, and the baby face."

"I don't have a baby face," Dick muttered.

"Sure you don't, Pixie Boots," Wally teased.

"Watch it, Twinkle Toes," the dark-haired boy shot back playfully as the two of them headed out into the hallway.

"But, seriously, he doesn't look _**so**_ bad," the speedster went on. "He probably inherited that creepy little cackle you used to do, though."

"Yeah, if he ever laughed."

"A kid that doesn't laugh? How serious is the mother to counteract _**your**_ genes like that?"

"Assassin serious."

"Good point," Wally conceded, willingly following Dick down the hallway to the gourmet kitchen. "Anyway, maybe once the kid stops trying to kill people, we could set up a superhero playdate," he suggested with a grin. "Jai and Irey _**love**_ meeting new people. And we could even get Roy to bring Lian along!"

"Yeah, that'd be nice," Dick agreed with a smile. "After all, us superhero dads need to stick together," he commented lightly.

"Definitely," Wally nodded, going straight to the fridge and grabbing the milk while Dick grabbed two cereal boxes from the pantry. "Superhero kids are _**impossible**_. I have no clue how the League ever _**survived**_ us," he joked.

"How are the twins doing?" Dick wondered genuinely as he prepared a bowl of Crocky Crunch and Wally made a bowl of Sugar Crisps. Both of them added at _**least**_ three spoonfuls of sugar on top.

"Good," the redhead replied, a gentle smile gracing his features. "Thanks to the combined efforts of the League and STAR Labs, we've finally managed to stabilize them permanently. No more accelerated aging for those two," he laughed, sadness plaguing the usually happy sound. "We only had to miss the first three years of their lives."

"Well, at least you didn't have to deal with the terrible twos," his friend reasoned.

"I guess. But Jai and Irey are terrible twos no matter how old they are."

"Must be hereditary."

"I'm going to tell Linda you said that."

"She'll just agree with me and you know it."

Wally pouted, finishing up his cereal with a half-hearted scowl. "Shut up," he mumbled, unable to think of a better comeback.

For a few minutes, they simply sat at the breakfast bar of the penthouse kitchen, munching happily on cereal in companionable silence. Neither of them spoke up, because neither of them needed to. Everything that needed to be said already had been, and now the two of them were content with just being in each other's presence.

"Now, let's hurry up and wash these," Dick said once they were done with their snacks. "If Alfred finds out we had sugar this early in the morning, he'll kill us."

"How'd you even manage to convince him to get you cereal, anyway?" Wally questioned as they washed their bowls.

"Lots of begging and plenty of shameless kissing up," the Gotham prince remarked cheekily. "Not to mention I had to clean the bathroom and make my own bed."

"Oh, you poor baby."

"Shut up, Wally," Dick retorted, flicking a few soap suds at the redhead and starting a miniature war between the two.

By the time their bowls were actually put away (and all the soap cleaned off of the floor and countertops), it was already nearly four in the morning. As exhausted as either of them were, they both knew that they wouldn't be able to sleep for the remaining hours of darkness.

"Should you be getting home soon?" Dick asked.

"Nah," Wally waved the comment off. "It's Saturday, so I haven't got any work, and Linda already knows I'm here. We could have a sleepover!"

"Sweet," the dark-haired boy grinned and let out a laugh. "Well, since you'll be staying for a while, I _**have**_ downloaded Call of Duty 5 onto the Batcomputer," he commented in a playfully thoughtful manner.

"Dude!" the hyperactive speedster all but squeaked. "That's not supposed to be out for another _**two months**_!"

"I know," Dick offered a sly smirk, already heading for the elevator that would take them down to the Bat-bunker. "A few small-time dealers were trying to get a bit of coin for selling it ahead of schedule. And, well, I couldn't let it get into the wrong hands, now could I?"

"Richard John Grayson, you are _**evil**_."

"Thanks, Wallace Rudolph West."

"Don't full name me!"

"You started it!"

"Did not!"

"Did to!"

"Are we really doing this?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

* * *

**Word Count: 3,958**

** A/N: Like I said. My OTP. DickXCereal forever! And some DickXWally, because I ship them (friendship, that is) harder than any other ship (romantic or otherwise)!**

** So, yeah. Kind of angsty. But it has a happier ending, right?**

** Just wanted to make things a little bit more clear: Lian (daughter of Roy Harper and the assassin Cheshire, if you didn't know) is going to be about five in this and not dead, while Jai and Irey (son and daughter of Wally West and Linda Park) are **_**technically**_** about six or seven months, but they are physically and mentally four now (oh, and I'm changing the whole planet traveling/speed force thing or whatever plotline that happened there, and substituting it with my own).**

** Are there any other comic children that Dick would be close to? Excluding, of course, Mar'i. She doesn't exist in this.**

** I've decided I should give a fair warning now. This story is shaping up to be longer than I expected. And it's going to move very slowly. It won't focus on Batman and the Bat Family. It will focus on Dick Grayson and the Wayne Family. It will revolve completely around Dick and Damian, and how Damian changes, and how Dick singlehandedly saves the entire universe through his superpower of making friends. There will be a sub-plot based on the secret and the destiny that Talia mentioned (and it will be BIG), but that comes much later.**

** Anyway.**

** Shout-outs to: Chunelle, XXXHells Angel of deathXXX, blueskyswclouds, vizard light, RDFitzy, shikamaru B5, Kilana89, wildninja1, Red Sky at Morning, SuperiorSpiderX, The Jinxer, XBlossom-FreakX, ricestalk-2004, AthenaOwl10, and for adding to favorites or for following! And special thanks to Evening Raven, soccernin19, FlightfootKeyseeker, MarissaTodd, and Kilana89 for reviewing!**

** Happy Valentines Day everyone! You leave a review, and I'll send you a Batman themed valentine (funny story, I actually got some from the story…they have a Nightwing one, but no Robin…)!**

** Thanks for reading!**

** Have a good week!  
~AvenJackel**

** P.S. Go see the Lego Movie if you haven't already. Batman made a goth/emo/heavy metal song for his girlfriend about the darkness in his life, having no parents, and how being rich makes it slightly better (I have the song on my ipod). Seriously. Go see it. Their Batman is hilarious.**

** Question of the Week: Why did none of the Bat Family members pick up Dick's call?**

** See you next week! Same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel!**


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Unfortunately.**

* * *

"Master Richard, how many times must I tell you that you need adequate hours of sleep at _**least**_ several nights a week?"

"One more time?"

"Not to mention having sugary snacks at such a time," the English butler sniffed disdainfully.

"How'd you know about that?" Dick exclaimed.

"You just proved my theory, sir," Alfred replied, a hint of smug satisfaction shifting in his tone.

"Wow," the dark-haired boy released a groan. "I must _**really**_ be tired if I'm falling for _**that**_."

"Indeed, sir," his caretaker agreed. "And need I remind you that the young master has been awake for near an hour already?"

"No, Alfie," Dick sighed, sagging in his seat and rubbing at his forehead in frustration. "I'll go right after I'm done with this," he gestured to the various displays on the Batcomputer.

"Very well, sir. I shall be upstairs should you require my presence."

"Thanks, Alfred," he called after the loyal butler, before turning back to the paperwork at hand.

Taking up the super computer's screen were digital copies of a birth certificate, social security identification, and American citizenship papers. All of them were almost completely filled out, backed up by hours' worth of faked government history, and solidified by key 'super-secret' databases from all over the US. There was just one thing missing, the same thing that had been glaring Dick in the face for the past half-hour or so.

_Name: Damian Grayson. Birthdate: Jan. 19, 2012. Blood Type: O-._

_ Middle name, Grayson, _he reminded himself. _The kid needs a middle name._

But, what was it supposed to be? Talia had never specified. Had the kid ever even had one? Or a last name, for that matter? Maybe he had always just been Damian, and nothing more. That didn't help Dick's dilemma, though. He needed to give the kid a middle name. A part of him groaned at the prospect of giving him a name, one that Damian would have to bare for the rest of his life, and the other part of him rejoiced. He hadn't been able to give Damian his first name, but he _**could**_ give the kid a middle name.

So, what then? His own name? Damian Richard. No, he didn't especially like his name. Damian John? Not quite. John was his middle name, and Dick wanted to give Damian something that was entirely his own. It had to be important, special in its own right. He couldn't give his son his own name, or his father's name. But what about his _**dad's**_ name?

_Damian Bruce Grayson._

With the rest of the papers filled out, Dick gave the encoded demand to the Batcomputer and headed upstairs. The super computer could handle the rest, including the printing of the (illegally) made documents. Perks of being a Gotham rich boy turned vigilante: bending the rules to meet your own needs.

Alfred was in the kitchen, preparing a near gourmet breakfast for both Dick and Damian (hopefully they could actually get the tiny terror to sit down and eat), and Dick managed to snag a piece of bacon on his way past. He could feel the butler's chastising glare on his back, and he quickened his pace. People thought the Bat-glare was terrifying? Please, that look had _**nothing**_ over the Alfred-glare.

He strode down the hallway to the secured door across from his own room. Taking a deep breath and finishing the strip of bacon, Dick mentally prepared himself to face a toddler assassin. Not for the first time that morning, he wished that Wally had stayed longer. Unfortunately, the twins had woken up with fevers, and Dick knew better than to try and keep the redhead from his kids. He vaguely wondered if it'd ever be like that for him and Damian. Of course he cared for the kid (how _**couldn't**_ he?) but it was nowhere near the relationship that he had had with his father, or his dad.

The door was quickly unlocked, and Dick opened it just enough to step inside. He shut the heavy door behind him and his mind was instantly on alert, more out of habit than anything. In mere seconds, he deduced that Damian, who was no longer in his bed, was either hiding from him, or planning a sneak attack.

A young battle cry off to the side clued him in that it was the latter of the two options. Twisting his head and taking in the situation, Dick spotted the little assassin lunging for him with a shard of glass as his weapon. Before the kid could so much as blink, he grabbed the toddler's wrist and easily caught him in his arms. Dick drove his thumb into Damian's wrist, right between the radius and ulna, careful not to inflict any unnecessary pain, and forced the boy to drop the glass.

Damian thrashed furiously in his arms, but Dick simply tightened his grip and held the toddler close against his t-shirt clad chest. The kid remained persistent, even as Dick transferred the boy to a one armed hold and bent to pick up the discarded piece of glass. With growing dread, he noticed it to be a shard from a now broken mirror on the other side of the room. He looked over the toddler for any injuries and spotted the blood that coated one of his hands. Damian must have punched the mirror in order to get a weapon.

Damn. The kid was resourceful.

Dick was snapped out of his thoughts when sharp little fingernails dug into his cheek and tried to thrust his head away, quickly followed by _**teeth**_ sinking into his forearm. It was admittedly painful, and blood welled up from the teeth marks, but thankfully Damian's nails hadn't broken the flesh on his cheek. He took a deep breath, reminded himself the meaning of patience, and calmly secured the little assassin into a tighter grip, this time careful to keep his limbs secured and face away from any of Dick's own body parts.

"Did you just bite me?" Dick wondered, careful to keep his voice light and as friendly as possible.

His grip on the young toddler was more of a martial arts hold than any comforting contact that normal parents would give their children. But Damian was _thrashing,_ and _screaming_, and Dick just couldn't seem to keep his arms and heart steady. He had held plenty of babies, and toddlers, and unconscious victims of all ages, and struggling criminals of all sizes. Dick had held Lian since before she could walk, and plenty of times after that, and he had been one of the first handful of people to hold Jai and Irey. At those times, he had been so confident, so sure; his arms had been steady, steady enough for those kids to climb on him like he was a jungle gym. Why was it so different, so much _**harder**_, when it was his own kid, when he had to hold someone that looked remarkably like him and no doubt share half his DNA?

"Let go!" the pint-sized fighter practically screeched.

The unexpected noise caused Dick to pause mid-step. Although uncharacteristically articulate for a child such his age, he still sounded like, well, a _**kid**_. And Dick couldn't help but find it _**adorable**_. Damian's voice was mostly a British accent, with a subtle hint of Arabic thrown in, just enough that it sounded exotic and entirely unique. As Dick continued on carrying the screeching kid across the hall to his room, where a first aid kit was, he realized that Damian had spoken for the first time (at least, the first time in front of him).

Sure, Damian's 'first words' hadn't been 'Daddy' or anything of that nature. But they had been directed at _**him. **_He suddenly found himself a bit giddy at that revelation, like he was finally noticing that, at the very least, Damian accepted him as a living member of the toddler's environment. It wasn't much, and many people would simply look past it, but it was a step in the right direction. And Dick had the overwhelming urge to cuddle with the still struggling child and spoil him rotten.

_Quit being so sappy,_ he groaned to himself. _You can do that later. Right now you've got a miniature assassin who is trying to attack you and whose hand is bleeding out._

Dick nodded resolutely, reaching his bedroom and grabbing the first aid kit that was on the bedside table. Normally, Alfred would handle most of the cuts and bruises, and even usually the minor ones. But Alfred was busy preparing breakfast and Dick didn't want to disturb him. Plus, he couldn't exactly ask the aging man to treat the struggling assassin.

_And you want to be the one to kiss Damian's boo-boos away, Grayson,_ he called himself out.

He rolled his eyes, but knew that deep down, that was probably the closest thing to the truth.

Dick settled down cross-legged onto the still rumpled bed sheets. He sat Damian on his lap, facing him, and carefully used his own legs to hold the toddler's down. With half of the violent and screaming boy's body restrained, Dick grabbed his flailing arms and firmly, yet gently, held them to stop him from harming either of them. Damian's face was red from his constant, and quickly growing louder, screeching, while tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes and snot dribbled past his nose. Instead of trying to do harm, he had resorted to simply getting away, leaning back and doing everything he could to escape Dick's hold.

_Temper tantrum, then,_ Dick decided with an inaudible sigh. _Great._

He knew how to deal with tantrums. Lian had always been terrible with tantrums, as happy of a little girl as she was. Granted, even Lian had had more 'screaming and crying' sorts of tantrums, while Damian seemed to be much more a 'kicking and biting' type of kid. Even so, Dick kept his cool and allowed the toddler to get it out of his system.

"It's okay, Damian," Dick assured the distraught toddler in a soothing voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. You don't have anything to fear."

It didn't help much, and instead Dick had to wait several more minutes until Damian's screams and protests died down from exhaustion. Damian slumped in his spot, as far away from Dick as he could manage, and sniffled pitifully. He was still incredibly tense, glaring at his father with a mixture of anger and dread, as if he were expecting punishment for his behavior. With a practiced ease instilled in him since he was a boy, Dick gingerly took Damian's injured hand into his own. The bleeding along the scarred knuckles had stopped, and Dick took an antiseptic wipe to gently clean them off. The toddler in his hold tensed even further, and flinched slightly.

"Sorry, Dami," Dick sent him a reassuring smile. "But I've got to fix your hand up, or else it'll hurt even more."

"Tt," the boy scoffed, narrowing his eyes and wrinkling his nose in distaste.

They fell into silence, Damian vehemently staring at his father while Dick patiently worked to treat the toddler's wound. After the blood was cleaned off, Dick wrapped Damian's knuckles in an ACE bandage. On a spur of the moment, he picked out one of the childish Band-Aids that Alfred kept for everyone's (his) amusement and carefully placed that on top. It had a little Peanuts design on it, with Snoopy flying his doghouse. Acting completely on the yearning in his heart, he ducked his head and planted a quick kiss over top the Band-Aid, remembering how his own mother had always done that for him.

"See? All better," Dick beamed at the sour-faced child before him.

In curiosity, Damian took his hand back from Dick's gentle hold and inspected the colorful piece of plastic and gauze on his skin. He wrinkled his nose, poked the bandaged wound, determined that the Band-Aid wouldn't kill him, and went back to scowling at the adult holding him. Confusion was evident in the child's narrowed gaze, and Damian seemed highly disgruntled by Dick's display of physical affection.

_He doesn't even know what a kiss is,_ he realized with disgusted horror.

Dick cocked his head to the side, peering at the toddler in curiosity. "I bet you're getting hungry, huh?" he figured. "All that traveling, and then dealing with me," Dick joked lightly.

Damian stayed persistently silent.

"Right. How about we go see if Alfie is done with breakfast?"

At that, Dick scooped his young son into his arms and stood up from the bed. He headed out of his bedroom and quickly strode down the hall to the kitchen. Damian was propped against his hip, supported with one arm, while the kid kept his arms stoically crossed over his chest and tried to avoid contact as much as possible.

"Morning, Alfie," Dick greeted, settling down at his seat and placing Damian on his lap. They had yet to buy any booster seat (or anything else, really) for the young boy, and they knew better than to let the kid sit on his own. "Look who's finally awake!"

"Master Richard, young Master Damian," the butler greeted kindly. "May I inquire as to what happened to the young master's hand?"

Dick grimaced. "He cut his knuckles when he punched a mirror to get a piece of glass," he explained.

"And your arm, sir?"

His eyes widened, just remembering the wound that now had dried blood over it. "He bit me. It's not too bad. It'll be healed over in a day or so," Dick shrugged Alfred's concern off. "Now, someone's getting hungry," he grinned down at the toddler on his lap. "What's on the menu, Alfie?"

"Blackberry brie omelets with bacon and cinnamon toast, sir."

"Ooh," Dick practically drooled. "That sounds _**delicious**_. What do ya think, Lil' D?" he questioned the newly dubbed 'Lil' D'.

Damian, in turn, looked up and gave his father a disgusted look, although whether to the nickname or to the food, Dick wasn't really sure.

"Orange juice, I assume, Master Richard?"

"Yes, please," Dick confirmed happily. "And what would you like, Dami? Orange juice or milk?"

He crossed his arms and firmly looked away, nose scrunched in disdain and chin tilted upwards in defiance.

"…you can share with me, then," the young man decided smoothly, not allowing his smile to falter.

"Your breakfast, sirs," Alfred announced, setting out a spread of heavenly smelling foods. There was a single large plate with the omelet on it, surrounded by carefully balanced side dishes, and a small collage of all of it on a separate plate for Damian.

"Thanks, Alfred!" Dick exclaimed, before eagerly digging into his meal. After taking a few bites of his omelet, he cut out a small piece and offered it to the disgruntled toddler. "Here, Dami. You should try some! Alfred's cooking is the _**best**_!"

"Tt."

"Don't like eggs, huh? You don't know what you're missing, buddy," he continued as if Damian hadn't just completely disregarded him. "How about some bacon? Everyone likes bacon."

Damian took one look at the greasy meat and instantly threw it on the floor.

"…you must be vegan, then. That's cool, protecting animal rights and everything. But that was just a waste of good bacon."

"I will clean it up, sir," Alfred offered.

"No need. I can get it."

"You seem to have your hands full, Master Richard," the butler pointed out astutely.

Dick sighed, but nodded. "Okay, Dami. How about…some fruit?" he wondered, picking up one of the blueberries from his bowl and holding it near Damian's mouth.

The toddler took the fruit into his small hand, inspected it, deemed it safe, and finally placed it in his mouth…until he spit it right back out. He went back to his earlier struggles, attempting to push away from the table with his hands and feet.

"I know it's frustrating, kiddo," Dick reassured softly, yet firmly. "But you've got to eat something, or else your tummy will hurt. See, Daddy will eat it," he demonstrated, popping a blueberry into his mouth and exaggerating his action. "Mm," he hummed in satisfaction, noticing how Damian had stopped struggling and was instead twisted to watch him with narrowed eyes.

Alfred, on the other hand, was busy gazing at the new father and son duo with a tender expression in his eyes. Perhaps Dick hadn't even noticed. But Alfred had. Alfred always noticed, even when all of his boys were blind to what was right in front of them. No, it had been too casual, too sudden, for Dick to have noticed. But the way his eyes had brightened when he claimed himself as Damian's father was all-too-obvious to the loyal butler. Some bonds happened slowly, but, even fourteen years after meeting the young, warm-hearted acrobat, Alfred knew that Dick formed bonds immediately. He found someone he cared for, and he latched onto them in a heartbeat.

And, sooner or later, Damian would realize that.

_Great-grandfather,_ Alfred mused. _That's a new one._

"How about an apple slice?" Dick continued on, oblivious to the butler's gaze. "They're my favorite, you know," he told Damian, acting as if it were some huge secret. Dick took a bite of the fruit, a crisp crunch following the action. Once again, he offered the half eaten piece to the toddler on his lap.

This time, however, instead of assaulting the floor with the food, Damian stared at it for a few quiet moments, before he hesitantly took a bite. Another crunch sounded, while the toddler cautiously chewed. Dick had an inevitable smile growing over his face, which Damian noticed with a rather contrasting scowl. He scrunched up his nose and turned his back to his father, but willingly put the remaining piece of fruit in his mouth.

"I knew you'd like apples, buddy," Dick grinned in triumph, reaching around the presently quieted child on his lap.

Breakfast passed at a slow pace, with Dick taking time to offer Damian food after every few bites of his own. Soon, the new father recognized a pattern in Damian's eating habits. Most food, the toddler would simply toss to the ground without a second glance. But when Dick took a bite first, proved to Damian that the food was indeed edible and tasty, only then would he actually eat anything. He still absolutely _**refused **_to have any orange juice, though. It was an exhausting process, but nearly an hour later, all the food was gone and Damian was, at the very least, _**less**_ violent.

"What's out plan for the day, Alfie?" the young man wondered, once again struggling to hold down the persistent toddler, who wanted nothing more to do with the breakfast table.

"I've scheduled for Dr. Leslie to stop by within the next hour, sir," Alfred replied from where he was washing the dishes. "She was not made fully aware of the situation, as I deemed it inappropriate to explain over the phone," he explained. "After that, we will be heading out for a much needed shopping trip."

Dick groaned melodramatically, leaning his head and rubbing at his forehead with one hand. "But _**Alfie**_-"

"No buts, Master Richard," the butler chided. "Although the press may become very much fixated with the young master, we still need to acquire mandatory items for young Master Damian's upbringing."

"I know," Dick sighed. "But the shutter sharks will _**definitely**_ get wind of him, and pictures, and plenty of horrendous rumors, and I haven't _**told**_ everyone yet!" the young man vented pathetically. "I _**tried**_, Alfie, really I did, but _**no one**_ answered me! Not Tim, not Steph, not Cass, not Babs. _**None**_ of them! Only Wally did, but Wally's got his own kids, and his own family to deal with," he continued.

"As do you, sir," Alfred reminded him gently. "You must start somewhere, Master Richard. May I suggest you start with the diaper bag currently in the young master's room? I doubt he is very much comfortable in his soiled clothes."

"…he's wearing a diaper?"

"Astute observation, sir," the butler commented dryly.

"How didn't I know _**that**_?" Dick exclaimed, as if finally recognizing the scent rolling off the young child in waves.

"Regarding your previous…_**living**_ _**conditions**_ in Bludhaven, sir, I daresay you didn't even notice any difference," he cocked a challenging eyebrow, before continuing. "But I will not allow for such a deplorable state here."

"It wasn't _**so **_bad," the young man tried to defend himself meekly. "It got the job done," he shrugged.

"Just as you have a job to complete, Master Richard."

"Right. Diaper duty," he wrinkled his nose, looking down at the disgruntled toddler on his lap. "Maybe that's why you're so grumpy all the time," Dick remarked casually, scooping the child up and returning to Damian's room.

Expectedly, Damian wrestled with Dick's arms the entire way there, but Dick was quickly becoming used to it, and was resigning himself to simply dealing with it in the most mature way possible. But that in and of itself was difficult, seeing how Dick just wanted to stick his tongue out at the little brat (in a teasing manner, of course).

He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and began his search for the diaper bag that Alfred had mentioned. It was on a low dresser top, the counter of which was covered with a clean white blanket. Dick furrowed his brow in confusion.

_How didn't I notice this earlier? When did Alfred get a diaper bag? And how come the League of Assassins can train a kid to wield a sword, and not even potty train him?_

Ignoring his questions in favor of just getting it over with, Dick set Damian on the edge of the dresser and went to check what was in the bag. Damian would have none of it. Almost immediately, the toddler was preparing to jump down from the dresser, to which Dick easily stopped him from doing. Damian's persistence was soon becoming clear, as he simply refused to sit still long enough for Dick to so much as remove the boy's robes.

"Dami, can you _**please**_ stop struggling?" Dick wondered civilly. "It won't take too long, and after we're done changing your diaper, you'll feel so much better!"

It didn't deter him at all.

"Come on, Damian."

The toddler's hands balled into fists, and he swung his arms with surprising accuracy at Dick's chest, the screams starting up for the hundredth time that day.

He honestly didn't know how much he could take. It had been _**one day**_ (not even a _**full**_ one), and already he had been kicked, punched, scratched, and bitten. It felt like he had spent all that time out on the streets of Gotham. But it was worse, because he was at _**home**_, where he was supposed to be able to relax, but instead he was being screamed at by a toddler, being disappointed in by a butler, and no doubt the family will consider him betraying them by the time the press pictures get out.

_Quit moping, Grayson,_ he groused to himself. _If Bruce were here he'd already have the kid quieted, changed, and at least __**somewhat**__ happier than now._

But Bruce wasn't there.

And how the _**hell**_ did anyone expect him to take care of a kid when all he wanted was his dad back?

"_**Damian**_," he ground out, frustration with all the screaming and the thrashing making him snap. He'd used his (still not as good as the original) Batgrowl.

Almost instantly, the toddler shut up, his normally narrowed eyes widened, with fat tears threatening to spill over his round cheeks. His face had already started going red, but he had stopped flailing and had stilled, until he was almost unnaturally stiff. Past his hiccoughing breath and the occasional sniffle, it was easy to see the poorly masked fear and confusion in the child's _**innocent**_ eyes. Because, whether he was trained as an assassin or not, Damian was still an _**innocent child**_. And the Batgrowl should _**never**_ be used on kids.

_Dammit, Grayson! You can't do anything right!_ he mentally cursed. _Now you've traumatized the already traumatized kid!_

He sighed out in frustration, but didn't even bother trying to apologize to the silent toddler. Damian wasn't struggling anymore, and Dick decided that that was better than having him start again, even if that meant hurting Damian's feelings a bit. Dick would sort it out later, he would sort _**everything **_(the kid, the assassins, Talia, Wayne Enterprises, the press, the family, the League, the Titans) out later. The list was getting longer.

Riffling through the contents of the diaper bag, Dick managed to find wipes, baby powder, and a clean diaper. He noticed with chagrin that there wasn't much present, and realized that they really did have a dire need for supplies. Dick also noticed that the diaper was made of cloth, instead of the typical disposable kind. That brought a small smile to his face. Growing up back in Haly's, he remembered how his extended family had insisted on using only cloth diapers. They were _**much**_ more convenient (and portable) when you were constantly on the move.

…now if only he knew how to _**use**_ one.

_Dammit. Come on, idiot. You've stopped a run-away freight train with a paperclip, some string, and a wad of gum. Surely you can figure out a goddamn diaper._

"Right," he breathed, his eyes quickly flickering to Damian, who was obediently watching him with a slightly scared look.

Dick decided that silence would probably be best for the experience. Damian wasn't in a good mood, he certainly wasn't either, and Dick just really wanted to get it over with already. He laid the toddler down onto the blanket and quickly, yet still gently, pulled his clothes off…and nearly punched the wall. Littering the boy's surprisingly lean torso, which had previously been covered by the assassin robes, were little bruises, and scraps, and cuts, and every other form of injury that a toddler most certainly should not have had.

"Dammit," Dick practically spat, only calming his raging anger once he noticed Damian stiffen painfully. "Daddy's not mad at you, Dami," he assured him tiredly. He forcefully let out all his pent-up anger in a heavy sigh, before setting his mind to finish the task.

The diaper was removed and the area it had once covered was swiftly cleaned up by a few wet wipes, only to reveal an angry red rash that plagued the area. He only just stopped himself from throwing his head back and groaning, the boy's twitch and barely audible whimper the single thing keeping him from such a childish response.

_You __**really**__ can't do anything right,_ he chastised himself as he looked for some rash cream in the diaper bag. _If you had just realized that the kid had a diaper, which he's probably been wearing for a __**day straight**__ now, then maybe neither of you would be in this situation. _He couldn't find anything useful. _No wonder the kid's been miserable. Anyone would be if they had to deal with all the pain that he is._

Dick mentally added the rash cream to his growing list of necessities and continued on with the new diaper. He carefully maneuvered the abused child, shifting him this way and that in order to correctly place the diaper cloth. It took a few tries, and several tears on both parties' behalves, before Dick finally gave a whoop of triumph, inevitably triggering Damian to flinch and then scowl at him.

"See, Dami? That wasn't so bad!" Dick told him cheerfully, gently picking him up and setting him on the carpeted floor.

"Tt."

Damian seemed highly uncomfortable, clad in only his new diaper, and crossed his arms to try and cover his bare chest. The assassin robes were balled up next to the soiled diaper, and Dick was silently planning to burn the damn things. He didn't want any physical evidence of the hell that those sick bastards had inflicted upon an innocent child, _**his**_ innocent child.

In the back of his mind, he vaguely decided that he rather liked the sound of that.

* * *

** Word Count: 4,715**

** A/N: Happy Friday, everyone! (or whatever day you happen to be reading this on)! I hope everyone's had a good week! Mine's been so-so, but writing this story always cheers me up (or makes me really, **_**really**_** depressed; it really matters) and I hope that it does the same for you guys!**

** Shout outs to: Darth Ziggy, Nanbu Kuma, DJ Candy Fox, Harbinger Lady, alyssaaa225, Hinata001, fangirlmaylin, ranlou, and GoddessofCongeniality for adding or favoriting! Special thanks to soccernin19, MarissaTodd, ProtectorKorii, ChibiFoxAI, FlightfootKeyseeker, Darth Ziggy, Nanbu Kuma, and Broken Antler in Winter for reviewing!**

** You guys are the best!**

** Hope you all enjoyed the chapter!**

** Please review, add to favorites or alerts, or whatever!**

** I love you all,  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: Will Damian ever get use to Dick's affection?**

** See you all next week! Same Bat-Channel, same Bat-Time!**


	6. Chapter Five

** Dedicated to my second favorite character of all time, who has now been dead for a year (and one day). Rest in peace, Dami. But not for too long.**

** Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just the tears I've shed over that lovable little shit.**

* * *

"I have dealt with many things during my service to this family, Alfred, but this is one of the stranger requests."

"Dr. Leslie," Alfred greeted with warm politeness, beckoning the aging woman into the penthouse and taking her light jacket. "Pleasure to see you, as always."

"Yes, it's lovely to see you as well, Alfred," the doctor agreed with a smile. "Now, where is my patient moping about this time?" she wondered with a twinkle in her dark brown eyes.

"I'm afraid there is a slight misunderstanding from our earlier conversation," he explained in an apologetic tone.

"We can discuss details later," she assured with a wave of her hand. "Although, I would like to know why I needed to bring along clothes fit for a toddler," Dr. Leslie cocked an immaculate eyebrow.

There came a distinct _thump_ from down the hall, followed by a strangled cry of pain and the near-silent pattering of small feet on the hard ground. Both of the figures, who had been on their way to the kitchen, froze and turned in the direction of the commotion, only to spot a tiny black-haired boy racing away from the noise. He was clad in only a diaper, revealing multiple markings of abuse and a well-toned body that was much too in shape for a child his age. Without warning, the boy dashed into the adjacent living room and leaped onto the couch, before easily jumping over the back of it and rushing off into the dining room. Once more, Alfred and Leslie's eyes were drawn to the same hallway as Dick quickly rushed down it, following the path that the toddler had taken (albeit with much more finesse and speed).

"I got him!" the young man called as an assurance, both to himself and to the elder onlookers. He finally managed to chase Damian into the dining room, flipping over the elegant table and scooping the toddler into his arms. "There," Dick sighed in relief, hardly even noticing how the young boy struggled in his grip. "Hi, Leslie," he greeted with a bright grin, his blue eyes brightening substantially (or, at least one of them, as the other was reddened and painful to simply look at).

"Uh," the woman stuttered out slightly, shock and intrigue coloring both her tone and her widened eyes. She shook herself to get a grip, reminding herself that the presence of a toddler was _**hardly**_ the strangest she had encountered alongside the illustrious Wayne family. "Hello, Dick," Leslie managed to get out, forcing her gaze to shift from the frustrated toddler to the young man that she had treated since he was a boy.

"Master Richard, what happened to your eye?" Alfred wondered in concern, getting a good look at the reddened organ.

"I was just trying to brush Dami's teeth, but he grabbed the toothbrush and jabbed me in the eye with it," he admitted sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand, the other one steadily holding the squirming boy.

Alfred repressed a long-suffering sigh and instead focused on the still confused doctor beside him. "Dr. Leslie, it was our original intention for you to check the young master, but it seems Master Richard's eye could use a quick look as well."

"Was that an eye pun, Alfie?" Dick wondered with a cheeky smirk.

"That shouldn't be a problem, Alfred," Leslie confirmed, before turning back to face the two black-haired boys in front of her.

"Shall I prepare some tea?"

"That would be lovely," the doctor nodded and the butler headed for the kitchen, leaving the others in near silence (broken only by the toddler's continued struggling). The three remaining people stayed quiet for several passing moments, before Leslie sighed and wandered over to the living room. She selected a plush armchair and sank into it, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Dick soon joined her, sitting cross-legged on the couch next to Leslie, and placed Damian in his lap. The toddler seemed to calm down some once they had been seated, although he still squirmed and let out the occasional quiet whine. Aside from that, the boy simply tried to avoid any contact between his bare back and the t-shirt that Dick was wearing.

"Dick," Dr. Leslie started slowly. "What's with the kid?"

"Um…Damian," he turned to the toddler on his lap, gaining the boy's attention and having the young and sour gaze meet his own, "this is Dr. Leslie Thompkins," Dick explained. "Leslie, this is Damian. He's my son."

_'Bruce, it's good to see you again. I hope I'm not here to re-stitch that knife wound.'_

_ 'Not quite, Leslie.'_

_ '…you are aware that a kid is asleep in __**your**__ chair, right Bruce?'_

_ 'Yes.'_

_ 'Who is he?'_

_ 'His name is Dick Grayson. He's my son.'_

She just kept her eyebrows from rising into her hairline, noticing the anxious look in the young man's eyes. He wanted to know if Leslie approved. _Honey, you don't need that from me._ "Adopted?" the doctor questioned curiously. That's what she had assumed. When Bruce had been broken, he had taken in a young orphan to heal both of them. Leslie wouldn't be surprised if Dick took a page from the same book.

"Not quite."

That caught her off guard, and she immediately took a closer look between the two. _Black hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. Not __**completely**__ impossible. _"What do you mean?"

"The paternity test is still running, but I was _**told**_ that he was mine, biologically speaking."

"Told _**by who**_?"

"…the League of Assassins."

Leslie sighed out both in frustration and exasperation. "It's never easy with you people, is it?"

"Nope."

"How long have you known about him?" she got down to business, already taking the necessary tools out from her bag and laying them out on the table before her.

"About thirteen hours. Give or take."

"Do you know the sort of treatment he received?"

"They were training him to be an assassin," Dick stated coldly.

"I can't exactly put that in my report, Dick."

"Well, that's the truth. What _**should**_ we put?"

"Do you know who the mother is?"

"Nope."

"Maybe she abused him?"

"Maybe. But what if we do end up knowing his mother?"

"Good point," Leslie conceded. "How about I check him over and then we'll think of a backstory? We shouldn't put it off for long. As soon as the paparazzi catch wind of him, they'll eat him right up."

"Okay," Dick agreed with a groan. "Dami, Dr. Leslie is going to look at all your boo-boos. She's not going to hurt you. Is that okay?" he looked down at the toddler reassuringly.

"Tt," the boy wrinkled his nose in distaste and shoved away from his father.

"I'll take that as a yes," he decided, setting the toddler onto the table so that the doctor could easily perform her check-up.

"Seems like he's quite the ruffian," Leslie commented with a slight chuckle. Her latex gloves went on with a snap, and the first thing she did was gently prod at Damian's stomach.

Immediately, the once fussy child went rigid, all his muscles tensing up enough that they were reminiscent of a snake coiled in anticipation. His deep blue eyes narrowed dangerously, and he trained a wary and defensive scowl onto the doctor. She promptly ignored it (if glares of any sort phased her, she never would've lasted over twenty years of service to the Wayne family), and instead went on with her clinical procedures. Damian never relaxed, even when it became clear that the doctor wasn't a threat. He stayed as stiff as a board, and occasionally he would flinch away from her contact, such as when she pressed on one of his bruises too hard or when she tried to look at his hands. Whenever he would grow impossibly tenser, Dick would reach out almost automatically and try to sooth the child by rubbing circles into his bare back. But the skin on skin contact seemed to worsen the boy's mood, and eventually Dick just let the professional do her work without interruption.

"Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it, Dick," Leslie admitted with a sigh, leaning back and returning all of her tools into her bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Damian relaxed minutely, no longer having to tolerate the incessant prodding of the doctor. He wasn't fussing anymore, instead merely giving into the situation that he found himself in.

"He's okay, isn't he?" the desperation was palpable in the young man's hurried question.

'_Should his forehead be this warm? And do kids sleep this much? He's okay, isn't he?'_

_ 'Bruce, he just has a __**cold**__. Give him some soup and plenty of rest and he'll be fine.'_

_ 'Are you sure, Leslie?'_

_ 'Positive. Now quit fretting or else you'll get worry lines.'_

_ 'I wasn't fretting.'_

Leslie offered a sympathetic smile. "Physically speaking, he's one of the healthiest toddler's I've ever met, excluding his various wounds, of course. Those are superficial anyway, and will heal over without leaving any scars."

"Why am I sensing a 'but' somewhere in here?"

"But mentally, Dick, he is most certainly not like any normal child," she continued seriously. "I'd go so far to say that he's never been in society. He's been locked up and abused all his life. This is not going to be easy, for _**either**_ of you."

"Tell me something I _**don't**_ know, Leslie," Dick sighed. "I already know that he's never had a single show of affection. He doesn't know what a hug, or a kiss, even are, and it's not like the League of Assassins ever gave him anything but negative physical contact. I _**know**_ that it's going to be hard. It _**already**_ is. But when has that ever stopped me?" he wondered with a forced smirk.

_Always smiling for everyone, kid. Maybe someday you'll learn to smile for yourself._ "I guess it never really has," she conceded gently. "Now, let's look at that eye of yours."

A quick check with an ophthalmoscope assured Dr. Leslie that everything was fine with the offended eye. She instructed for him to ice it (which he probably wouldn't end up doing anyway) and then they settled down in the kitchen for some fresh tea, made by Alfred. Dick picked the seat next to her, although his focus was trained on the boy across the room, who had his hands and face pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the busy city of Gotham. Alfred offered them both a cup of tea, before he himself chose to sit across from them.

"Well, I managed to bring some clothes like you requested, Alfred," Leslie broke the tense silence that had slowly built up between the three of them. She reached into her bag, pulling out a pair of toddler-sized jeans and a single shirt. "I know it isn't much, but they should suffice until you can buy him some of his own. Although they may be a little big on him. Damian seems small for his age," she reasoned, glancing back over at the boy. "Nothing to be worried about," the doctor continued hastily, noticing the familiar worry in Dick's eyes. "It's probably just hereditary. You aren't exactly the tallest person around, either, Dick," she reasoned with a gentle smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

"Don't remind me," the young man mumbled playfully, rolling his eyes and once more focusing on the toddler over by the windows. Not once had Damian moved from his vantage point of the city, aside from turning his head to watch the various birds that flapped past.

Dr. Leslie finished off her tea with a final sip and glanced at her watch, grimacing at the time. "I should probably be heading off. The clinic is packed for the day, and they're going to need me," she informed the others regretfully. "Get some pictures of Damian's wounds as soon as possible. We don't want the press trying to blame _**you**_ for it. And try to come up with a feasible story," Leslie instructed Dick with all the intent of a stern mother.

"Yes, ma'am," Dick gave a half-joking salute, standing up alongside Leslie in order to walk her to the door.

_You always were a gentleman_. Leslie offered him a warm smile, before accepting her jacket from Alfred and slipping into it. It was only early October, but already Gotham was beginning to grow chilly.

"Master Richard, I assure you I am quite capable of walking Dr. Leslie to the door myself," Alfred reminded the young man, his brisk tone colored with humor.

"I'm just trying to be a good host, Alfie," Dick grinned back, as the group of three reached the high-speed elevator that went straight to the first floor of Wayne Towers.

"Thank you, Dick, for walking me out," Leslie emphasized, fixing the boy's faked pout with a warm hug. "Take care of yourself. And take care of that kid of yours."

"Of course I will," he assured. "Thank you, Leslie."

_'Now you really better not get yourself killed. You've finally got something to return home to.'_

_ 'I do, don't I?'_

_ 'Yes. So take care of him. And yourself, while you're at it.'_

_ 'Of course I will.'_

"If you ever need something, you know my number," Leslie reminded him pointed. _Maybe, this time, __**someone**__ in this family will learn how to __**ask**__ for help._

"By heart," Dick confirmed, before finally releasing the older woman from their embrace and bidding her farewell, heading down the hall back to where Damian had last been.

"And make sure you ice that eye of yours!" the doctor called in exasperated worry.

"I will!"

"Alfred, make sure he actually ices his eye," she rolled her eyes.

"Of course, Dr. Leslie," Alfred confirmed.

"Thank you for the tea. It was a wonderful as usual," Leslie continued with a gentle upturn of her lips.

"The pleasure was all mine."

"Take care of yourself," she told him, before taking a single step closer to him and pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek.

Even once she pulled back slightly, they both remained within each other's personal space for a few stretched out moments. The quiet was shattered by a wolf whistle from further in the penthouse, causing the two to instantly jump apart. Leslie shifted on her feet and switched her bag to her other hand, whereas Alfred straightened his suit jacket before turning in the direction the noise had come from.

"Master Richard," the Englishman called sternly to where there was distinct laughter. "Don't you have a young assassin to find?"

The laughter immediately died out, and was replaced with hurried footsteps. "Crap! Where'd he get to this time?"

Leslie chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "I suppose I'll leave you to it, then," she nodded in farewell. "Good luck with those two."

"Rest assured, Dr. Leslie, I have handled my fair share of troublesome boys in my lifetime. One more will do no harm."

"I'll see you soon, Alfred."

"I've no doubt that you will, Leslie."

* * *

"We are quite lucky that word hasn't got out as of yet, sir," Alfred commented lightly, shifting the Bentley into park. He soon got out of the car and briskly strode over to Dick's door, holding it open in order for the young man to get out with his arms full of finicky toddler.

"Yeah," Dick agreed with a wrinkle of his nose. "Can't _**wait**_ to see how that goes," he muttered, before his face suddenly brightened at the stores before him. "Can we go to the toy store first, Alfie?" the young man practically begged, bouncing lightly on the palms of his feet and causing the boy in his arms to scowl even further.

"I suggest we gather the necessities first, Master Richard," the butler pointed out. "Then we can go to the toy store."

"Okay. I guess that makes sense," he conceded. "What do you think, Dami?" he wondered excitedly.

But the toddler was far too distracted by the high-end stores that surrounded them on all sides. The family of three had found themselves on the intersection of Parkway Avenue and Main Street, a section of Gotham that was notorious for being a playground of the city's elite. Any and all of the stores only accepted millionaires, at the very _**least**_, and even had strict policies against the presence of any paparazzi. Along the pristine streets were a few other groups of rich socialites and their own party of butlers, chauffeurs, and the like. Dick recognized all of them, not particularly because he liked them, but simply because they were the snobs that he had grown up around, and because now they were his business opponents (or maybe the occasional ally). He knew that every single one of them noticed him, and the small child that was hidden halfway inside his pea coat.

Fancy signs and classy storefronts decorated the street, but Dick's eyes were drawn straight towards the bright colors and the warm scent of cinnamon that always seemed to come from Howie's Corner, the single greatest toy store on the East coast, and possibly even the whole world. Dick couldn't even count the number of times he and Bruce had snuck past Alfred and gone to Howie's Corner to avoid the dreaded suit shopping. There had always seemed to be something new to inspire one's imagination, even after Dick had gotten older and Jason, and later Tim, had joined them.

"Master Richard," Alfred's soft tone broke his train of thoughts, and he shook his head only to realize that they had stopped in front of the first store, a classy place for young children's clothes.

Dick wasn't sure how long they had been there, but judging by how Alfred was holding the front door open and how the butler was offering a sympathetic look, Dick assumed that it had been at least long enough to draw attention to himself. "Right. Sorry, Alfie. Just thinking," he adopted a lazy grin, stashing away the pain that threatened to spill over into his eyes.

"Of course, sir."

They stepped inside the store, feeling a rush of warm air that expelled the chill of the October noon. A young woman greeted them politely from a desk nearby, and offered to help if they needed any, but left them to their devices. It wasn't unusual for the service in the high-end stores to be as such, considering the socialites of Gotham were notoriously hot-headed, and they all had hired help anyway. Alfred took the lead, heading straight for the toddler boys' section.

Dick shifted Damian in his arms, so that the child was no longer looking over Dick's shoulder, where he had been glaring at the store's worker, and was instead facing frontwards. Even as they walked by and Damian wrinkled his nose or crossed his arms at everything they passed, Dick's mind was preoccupied with bittersweet memories that seemed far too long ago. He would've ran straight into a rack of pajamas had it not been for Damian's whine of protest.

_Right, Grayson. Clothes first. You can mope about Howie's Corner later. Damian needs clothes._

Damian actually _**really**_ needed clothes. Aside from the robes that the boy had been clad in when he had first arrived, he only had the hand-me-down outfit that Leslie had offered them. He didn't even have any shoes or socks on, and the only way that Dick had managed to keep the chill from him had been by bundling him inside his own coat, which the toddler had protested to vehemently.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to ask Alfred a question, a hilariously familiar emblem caught his eye. Dick paused mid-step, eyes trained solely on the rack of footie pajamas off to his side. He risked a glance over towards his butler. Alfred was busy looking through a selection of, in Dick's mind, way overpriced clothes.

Fourteen years later, and he still wasn't use to socialite prices.

"Okay, Dami," he grinned deviously, smoothly easing over towards the pajamas that had caught his eye. Alfred wouldn't even notice that they were gone. "I've got something that I _**know**_ you'll love."

At that, Dick selected the size that, judging by his best estimation, would roughly be right for the toddler, and made a beeline for the changing rooms. He cast several glances over his shoulder, a habit which Damian seemed to subconsciously mimic, although the confusion on the boy's face was evident. They managed to duck into the changing room without Alfred stopping them, and Dick worked quickly to keep it that way. If Batman knew everything about Gotham, then Alfred Pennyworth knew everything about _**everything**_.

Damian didn't fuss as much as Dick had expected, which the young man figured was a small blessing. He _**really**_ didn't want to deal with one of the toddler's tantrums in public. Not when they hadn't even gone to Howie's Corner yet. Perhaps it was due to the change of scenery, as Damian seemed highly uncomfortable, and begrudgingly curious, with the unfamiliar settings. Dick managed to pull off his son's jeans and shirt and replaced it with the footies that he had found. Thankfully, the size seemed to be right, and, although the visage was ruined by a horribly pouty scowl, it was just what Dick had envisioned.

"Master Richard, are you in there?" a prim voice spoke up from behind the closed door.

"Alfie, isn't he adorable?!" Dick all but gushed, throwing the door open and presenting the newly clad toddler.

"Sir, the young master is a boy, not a doll."

"Well, I know that," the young man pouted, "but I just thought we could get it."

"Superman pajamas, sir? For him, or for you?" Alfred gave him _**the look**_.

"…fine, I'll go change him back," Dick slumped reluctantly.

"Take these with you, if you will, Master Richard," the butler offered an armful of clothes. "I believe they will be to young Master Damian's liking."

"'Kay, Alfie. I'll get him to try some of these on."

"Very good, sir."

Discarding the Superman pajamas, and making Dick pout slightly, he instead changed Damian into a pair of khaki pants and a striped polo shirt, completing the look with some miniature red Converse. Or, at least he _**tried**_ to put the Converse on, but the toddler seemed very adamant about _**not**_ wearing stuff on his feet. Damian wouldn't even allow Dick to put socks on him, and after nearly ten minutes of struggling with the stubborn boy, Dick simply gave in, receiving a smug little smirk from his son.

"You win this round, Lil' D."

Damian didn't approve of any of the clothes. They were stiff, and heavy, and all but unnecessary in his mind. He was used to light-weight robes, bare feet, and even going without a shirt. But he was most certainly not used to corduroys, or button-ups, or anything of the sort. So Damian made this fact known with every piece of article that his imbecile 'father' put him in. He fussed, he fought, he spat, he even bit a few times (although he reminded himself not to again; his 'father' didn't taste very good).

Finally, after a harrying hour or so, the trio made their way to the check-out counter. Dick offered to help Alfred carry all the clothes they were purchasing, but, what with the finicky toddler in his arms, the butler assured him that he could manage just fine. As the price skyrocketed upwards from the clothes, Dick focused on the boy, pointedly ignoring the cash register and instead trying to gain Damian's attention long enough to stop him from glaring at the saleswoman. Eventually, Damian was too distracted by his father's silly faces, wrinkling his nose in disgust and confusion, to even notice the worker that was in front of them, and the group of three were able to leave the store without insulting the poor woman.

"Now can we go to Howie's?" Dick practically begged, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly.

"Not quite, Master Richard," Alfred commented. "We've gotten clothes, and I have various other necessities scheduled to be delivered today, but there is one other store that I would like to peruse. After that, you may go to the toy store."

"Yes!" he cheered, a skip in his step. "Hear that, Dami? We're going to Howie's soon! Oh, you'll love it, kiddo!"

"Tt."

"Don't be such a sourpuss," Dick comically mimicked Damian's scowl, just as Alfred ushered them into a nearby store.

"Follow me, Master Richard," Alfred instructed, leading the father and son duo towards the back of the shop.

"What are we here for, Alfie?" the young man wondered, making a face at Damian to at least try and get a smile. "Wait," he stopped, face paling as he recognized the store's interior from his worst nightmares.

"Suit fittings, sir, for the both of you."

"_**No**_," Dick whined immediately. He resorted to dragging his feet along the tiled floor and taking as long as possible to catch up with the butler. "Not suit fittings," he groaned pathetically.

"Master Richard," Alfred admonished icily. "I will not tolerate this behavior."

"Sorry, mom," he instantaneously perked back up, hurrying to reach the fitting section of the store before he got in trouble with the butler. So, instead of complaining any further, he submitted himself to being poked and prodded and fussed over for the next thirty or so minutes.

He changed out of his outfit, a classy ensemble of some dress slacks and a white button-up shirt (which was quickly becoming his usual, due to Alfred's refusal to let him wear jeans everyday), and into a sleek Armani suit that was slightly too large for him. Fittings were always painstaking, especially when the needs for the suits were so specific. Everything needed to be loose, that way it wouldn't show any of his well-toned muscles, as they were _**far**_ too well toned for a billionaire (even if he _**had**_ been a police officer), but also not so loose that they ended up making him look bad. After all, he _**was**_ the elite of Gotham's elite. And he most certainly needed to look the part.

While his usual tailor, a man of French descent by the name of Gaspar, worked on getting the dimensions correct, a kind-hearted woman (Sarah, he believed) was doing the same for Damian. The toddler did _**not**_ seem to be enjoying it, if his constant shifting and perpetual frown were anything to go by. Granted, he was like that even in the best of circumstances. But Dick still counted his lucky stars that his son hadn't tried harming the seamstress. He figured it was the constant presence of Alfred that kept the boy from acting out, as the butler had the look on his face that just _**dared**_ anyone (i.e. Dick and/or Damian) to misbehave.

Thankfully, the look managed to keep Damian in check for the entirety of the fitting, and soon both he and Dick were changing back into slightly more comfortable clothes. Taking the chance, Dick went ahead and replaced Damian's handed down clothes with an outfit they had previously bought. Damian was okay with the jeans, and even with the t-shirt and pea coat that nearly matched his father's. But he drew the line at shoes.

_You are getting nowhere fighting with a two-year-old,_ Dick reasoned to himself. _Find a way to convince him. Use bribery, or something._

"Okay, Dami, I'll make a deal with you," the young man started professionally. "If you wear these shoes, I'll let you walk around on your own for a bit," he tempted.

Damian's scowl deepened even more, but a strangely accurate calculating look settled over his eyes, and eventually he gave a single curt nod. Dick let out a whoop, before quickly getting the kid's shoes and socks on so that Damian couldn't change his mind. He scooped the boy off of the counter he'd use to get him dressed and carefully set him on the ground. The toddler took a few experimental steps, decided that the shoes were a horror he much detested, and attempted to glare holes into them. Seeing that it did nothing to the wretched things, Damian let out a child-sized groan, but conceded to the predicament and opted to make his way through the store on his own.

Dick trailed several steps behind the boy, watching in amusement as he tried to work with the uncompromising soles of his new shoes. Eventually, Damian got a hold on walking in the sneakers, and managed a smoother, quicker pace than before. They wandered past the fitting area and on towards the younger section. Just as Damian was pushing his way straight through the junior girls' area, a glint of silver caught Dick's eye. He paused and turned to look at the small display of jewelry. The particular necklace that had caught his eye was a delicate silver chain, suspended on it being a little blown glass _**bat**_.

A chuckle slipped past his lips as he contemplated the necklace before him. _Steph would __**love**__ it. And it is getting pretty close to her birthday. She'll be turning seventeen soon, and I could just send it to her-_

_ Right,_ he reminded himself, smile instantly dropping from his face. _You have to know where someone is in order to send them a gift, Grayson. Besides, she'd probably just throw it out or something._

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he looked back around to where Damian had just been, only to find the young boy missing. "Crap," Dick muttered under his breath, scanning every direction to try and spot the familiar head of spiky black hair. But, of course, the kid was hardly knee height and all the racks were far too tall. "Damian," he called quietly, hoping that no one else in the store would overhear him.

His first time out in public with his kid and he already lost him. Alfred was going to kill him. And so would the press if they found out. Dick carded his fingers through his hair, and hurried off in the direction Damian had been going. He forcibly kept himself from outright sprinting through the store, but he couldn't stop the stream of worse case scenarios that plagued his mind. Images of his young son getting lost, or wandering out the store, or getting kidnapped, or-

_Stop it, Grayson. You've dealt with __**way**__ worse. This is nothing,_ he remarked scathingly in his head, pushing his worry away and trying to think calmly. _Why is it so hard to __**not**__ panic when it comes to that brat? You've known him for __**one day**__, Grayson._

He decided not to dwell on that question, and instead focused on a logical search. Damian was headed for the baby section, no doubt due to the soft pastels and the lack of people there, and he was probably still going there, if his constant stubbornness was anything to go by. Dick quickly arrived in the designated area, weaving between one-pieces and bibs and everything in between. The young man was so absorbed that he very nearly tripped right over the small figure of his search.

"Damian! There you are!" he just barely kept himself from shouting, instantly crouching down to envelope the boy in a warm hug. "Don't wander off like that!" Dick chastised lightly. "You scared Daddy!"

"Tt," the toddler scoffed, using one hand to shove Dick's face away and the other to reach for something on one of the racks.

"Whatcha got there, Lil' D?" Dick wondered, grabbing the object of Damian's struggles.

_A baby blanket?_ Dick realized in confusion.

"Gimme," Damian demanded, holding out his hands in expectation.

"What do we say, Damian?"

"Now."

"…close enough," Dick gave in, allowing the boy to grab the admittedly soft blanket from his grasp and investigate it.

Damian's small hands roamed over the material, face contorted in both confusion and a hint of wonder. Dick himself was looking rather curiously at the cloth, but was careful not to disrupt the toddler's own exploration. The blanket in question was a pastel yellow in color, made of a warm baby-approved fleece that felt as comforting as it looked. That in and of itself wasn't unusual, but rather it was the embroidered patch on one of the corners that caught Dick's attention. It was a little _**robin**_, mostly a light brown in color but with a red chest.

_Well, I'll be damned,_ Dick scratched his head. _Coincidence? Maybe, but after working the nightshift for fourteen years, you learn that coincidences don't happen often. It must be a __**sign**__, _he reasoned thoughtfully, gazing questioningly at the entranced little boy that stood before him.

A warm smile, a _**genuine**_ smile (truly one of his first in the last few weeks), spread across his lips as he reached out to ruffle his son's black locks. He received a fussy whine, a small hand batting his away, and an irritated 'tt' before he straightened back up and gently led his son over to the check-out. Along the way, he grabbed an armful of 'baby' things (that Damian may or may not have scoffed at), and ended up putting several more items than he'd intended on the counter.

The bill continued to go up as Dick piled on more and more little things. But money wasn't a problem, especially not when it concerned the little boy that was solely dependent on him. It reminded Dick of when he had first been taken in by Bruce, when the billionaire had insisted on buying him everything to his heart's content. Dick had only managed to ward off all the presents for a few weeks, but even then he had constantly teased Bruce about trying to spoil him.

Now, he finally understood. If the boy wanted it, Dick would give Damian the world.

* * *

**Word Count: 5,664**

**A/N: Sorry for updating a bit later than usual! I was planning on updating yesterday (to commemorate Damian's death day), but FanFiction was not agreeing with my laptop. And then I actually went out and did stuff with people! Imagine that!**

** Shout outs to: Nicnak24, cutekoalas, BriannieBee64, Drawn2Danger, GinaRogers, Xenitha, christian77611, Dead Hero, Willow D'Forest, kitfox12, xiaohou, Golden-Assassin94, SuperiorSpiderX, Ana di Angelo, totallyawesome1398, and Obsessive Nature for adding to favorites or alerts! (Sorry if I missed anyone, this is getting confusing!) Special thanks to Nanbu Kuma, kuromi123, soccernin19, Daw, FlightfootKeyseeker, GinaRogers, BriannieBee64, Drawn2Danger, MarissaTodd, Xenitha, and Dead Hero!**

** Thank you guys for reading and reviewing (puppy dog eyes)!**

** Hope you all liked the chapter!**

** You're all perfect,  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: Will the Batfamily celebrate Steph's birthday together?**


	7. Chapter Six

** Disclaimer: If I had any ownership over the members of the Batfamily, this would be real.**

* * *

The scent of cinnamon and the sweet concoctions of childhood swirled about, near tangible in its wafting, wandering sense of leisure. Fine dust particles floated in the vaguely aging air, dancing in the chilly breeze that was announced by a clinking bell and an opening door. A father and son shuffled in quickly, closing the door behind them and allowing the air to still once more. But, rather than cascade back into a drowsy state of rest, the dust particles shifted about, attempting to dodge the propeller of a passing toy plane as it whizzed through the space above the stocked shelves.

Dick breathed in a deep breath, reveling in the familiar smell and feel of the store around him. The generous heat of the place dispelled the October air, replacing it with an embracing warmth that seemed to encompass all. Bright colors covered everything, a collage of reds, and yellows, and pinks, and all the others in between, making an assault upon one's eyes that was both blindingly unashamed and gloriously joyful. Children ducked and weaved throughout the overflowing shelves, their world of imagination being brought to new limits amid the abundance of stuffed animals, toy models, and whirring gadgets.

Unlike the other stores in the area, Howie's Corner gave no prelude to being sophisticated. There was no posh classical music playing, no uppity adults demanding the best service in snobbish tones, and no need for indoor voices. Established in 1923 by Howard Johnson Sr., and named for Howard Johnson Jr., who had in fact died from tuberculosis at age nine, Howie's Corner had long been a refuge from the trials of society for those who still remained innocent minded. Gotham's favored toy store had pulled through the Great Depression, had faced down the Second World War, not to mention all the others following, and even boasted survival against the Joker himself. And, through it all, Howie's Corner had remained a nightlight of hope to the children of Gotham, allowing in kids of all ages, and of all family incomes. The latest owner, a young man by the name of Tobias Rexford, affectionately dubbed 'T-Rex' by the kids, vowed to uphold the famous store's legacy.

"Toby!" Dick called in greeting, raising his voice slightly over the din of excited kids and the hum of electric toys. He offered a hand to the friendly face behind the counter, clasping the other's hand in a tight grip and receiving a fond chuckle.

"Dick?" Toby checked in surprise. "It's been a while since I saw your mug around here," he joked.

"Sorry I haven't stopped by lately," he laughed back sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Things have been a bit hectic," Dick admitted.

"Yeah, I heard you took over WE just recently," the toy store owner realized. "But," the brunette young man beamed, "even big business CEOs have time for play," Toby laughed. "Now, I was trying to be polite, but what's with the kid?" he wondered curiously.

"Uh, Toby, this is Damian," Dick quickly introduced the toddler, who was entirely too distracted by the playing children and constant movement of the lively store to even maintain his customary scowl.

"It's nice to meet you, Damian," Toby nodded, gaining the boy's attention only long enough for Damian to glare at him, before a toy blimp bobbing along the store's ceiling caught his eye. He watched it leisurely float along until a few kids ran past him and he turned his head to scowl at them, both in distaste and in confusion. "You know, I have a nephew about his age," the store owner continued thoughtfully. "He doesn't really have many friends. Maybe we could get them together sometime?"

"That'd be great," the young billionaire agreed with a grateful smile. "I don't think Damian's ever even _**seen**_ other kids before," he went on, only half-jokingly.

Just then, a few kids accidentally knocked into a shelf and bumped nearly half the toys off. They quickly called out an apology of 'Sorry, T-Rex' through their laughter, and scampered off before they could be yelled at. The store owner simply rolled his brown eyes in fond exasperation, turning to Dick sheepishly.

"Gotta go pick that up," he explained hurriedly. "You've got my number. Call if you ever want to set up a playdate," Toby bid farewell, ducking around the counter to clean up the fallen toys.

"Well, Dami," Dick looked down to the entranced boy in his arms, "guess it's just you and me," he joked, before setting the toddler on his own two feet and letting him wander around.

Immediately, Dick noticed with distaste, his son went for the toy guns.

_Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Grayson,_ he shook his head at himself. _You used to play with Nerf guns all the time._

_ Correction, _Dick remarked mentally, strolling along leisurely behind the fast-paced toddler, _you still play with Nerf guns. Especially when Roy and Wally are over._

Howie's Corner always made sure that there were opened toys for the kids to play with, even before they begged their parents to buy them something, so it wasn't hard for Damian to grab a miniature gun. He inspected it curiously, crouching down so that he was bent over the unrealistic toy, and was thoroughly disappointed when it occurred to him that it wasn't the real thing. Damian scoffed in the derogatory way that Dick was quickly growing accustomed to and went to discard of the false gun.

Dick chose then to step a little closer, shifting restlessly on his feet, as he had been cooped up all day and hadn't even gone on patrol last night. Reacting on instinct, Damian fixed the Nerf gun into a hurried grip and fired a single shot at the shifting figure. The foam bullet bounced right off the middle of Dick's chest. It took Dick milliseconds to process what had happened.

_Of __**course**__ my assassin son knows how to use a gun._

Deciding to play along, Dick let out an exaggerated cry and swiftly fell to his knees, jokingly flailing out his arms before finally collapsing onto his back beside the now distraught child. "I've been shot!" he called playfully, just barely able to hear the clatter as the Nerf gun hit the hard-wood floor. A sound akin to that of a strangled cat met his ears, and he immediately opened his blue eyes to find Damian red-faced and teary-eyed.

_Note to self: kid's surrounded by death actually __**don't**__ like it when you play dead._

_ Smooth, Grayson._

He worked quickly to fix the wobbling frown on his boy's face. Dick plucked the child up off the ground and easily tossed him into the air a few feet, making sure to capture him safely into his arms after Damian's descent. He'd been hoping for maybe a scoff, or at least to wipe the frown off the boy's round face. The tiny little giggle he received instead was entirely unexpected.

Which is why, when Dick had sat up and Damian was held in his lap, his face was completely frozen in a state of shock.

_Damian, raised by assassins, __**laughing**__?_

The boy's smile, which had already been far too miniscule for Dick's liking, began to slide off the moment he realized that his father wasn't laughing along. Instantaneously, his brief moment of pure, innocent joy was wiped off his face and replaced by a look of steely coldness, both absolute dread and quiet acceptance and _oh, Damian, did they __**punish**__ you for laughing?_ But, Dick on the other hand, could hardly see Damian's expression through the tears that clouded his vision. A light-hearted laugh, straight from his belly, bubbled its way up his throat, bursting forth with a strength he had forgotten he had had. Laughter, _**his**_ laughter, rose up in the warm, cinnamon flavored air, dancing alongside that of the children, until all he could hear was the innocence of life. And _**damn**_, did that feel good.

He couldn't remember when he had last felt so _**light**_. Certainly not for the past month. But, even before Bruce…when was the last time he had gone _**without**_ feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders? Weeks, months, years? Had it been before the fight with Superboy Prime? The time Bane broke Bruce's back? Or even before the Joker killed Jason while he was off-world? Maybe even since before he ever left the Robin title? He simply _**couldn't remember**_.

But he loved it. Loved the way his stomach and chest were practically sore from his prolonged laughter, or how the corners of his eyes crinkled of their own accord. Dick loved how his shoulders shook, and, in effect, how he could see Damian bobbing up and down in his arms. Breathing in a deep sigh, Dick finally calmed himself down, wiping away the remnants of tears that had slipped past his eyelashes and smiling affectionately at the frozen boy on his lap. Damian's face seemed to be halfway between a grin and a grimace, not quite a neutral look, but far too confused and anxious to be either good or bad.

"It's okay, Dami," Dick assured quietly. "See? Everything's just fine," he continued softly, gently ruffling the toddler's hair before brushing his bangs out of the boy's eyes.

That seemed to do the trick, and suddenly the once distraught toddler was letting out a scoff and scowling half-heartedly. Dick decided to let it go for the moment, seeing as how Damian's hand was tightly clutching a fistful of his shirt, and opted instead to get up and continue with the shopping trip. Just as he was about to look at more of the Nerf guns, Damian let out a tired yawn, ineffectively attempting to stifle the noise. He looked down at the boy, and watched in fond amusement as the dark-haired head lolled left and right, but the toddler resolutely refused to fall asleep in such an unknown area.

Dick decided to wrap up his trip in the toy store, and quickly ended up picking out more than twenty different toys. He paid for them with his golden credit card, politely asking for Toby to send them to the penthouse, as Dick was positive they wouldn't all fit into the Bentley they had arrived in. Soon, Dick was carrying a near-slumbering Damian out of Howie's Corner. The young man was fairly confident that the toddler was only forcing himself to stay awake because he still didn't trust all the children, if his pointed scowls were anything to go by, so instead of trying to get Damian to cooperate, he merely conceded to get to the car and go home.

_Spoke too soon,_ Dick nearly cried when, after his first step out of the store, he was flocked by a mob of ravenous paparazzi. They surrounded him on all sides almost instantly, pressed entirely too close for comfort and constantly blinding the young billionaire with their camera flashes. He felt his son tense automatically in his arms, before seeing the boy whip his head around frantically. A small fist was clutched fiercely in the collar of his shirt, and Dick could just barely hear the boy's quickened breathing over the roar of the crowd. On pure instinct, Dick tightened his arms around Damian protectively and used his free hand to press the toddler's face against the crook of his neck, trying to shield him from the greed of the paps. He could feel Damian shivering in his hold, the tension that seized all the boy's muscles, how the toddler constantly attempted to twist in every which way to survey all his enemies, while at the same time clinging desperately to his father's torso.

_No, Grayson, it wouldn't look good to kill any paps,_ Dick convinced himself, trying for levity, if merely to distract himself from the anger that rushed through his veins. The damned, greedy, idiotic excuses for humans had _**no**_ right, constitutional or not, to invade his personal space and terrify his innocent son. He reminded himself to keep a neutral expression, forcing it to stay at least seemingly happy and not in any way angry or pained. He couldn't afford for any rumor regarding his 'Loss of Control' or 'Emotional Breakdown' this early on.

They would still come, though, if the shouted questions on all sides were anything to go by. _'What's with the child, Mr. Wayne?'_ was all but screamed in his ear, while on his other side another reporter piped up with a _'Is this your first charity case?'_ He ignored it. _'What are your plans for WE, Richie?'_, or _'You honestly plan on raising a child?'_ They were all the same. The same questions he had heard ever since Bruce had taken him in as an eight-year-old. It was all pointless babble, babble that he had been trained to effectively drown out until he was perfectly capable of weaving and shoving his way through the crowd.

But Damian didn't know how to do that. And Dick wasn't surprised in the least that the toddler was taking it so poorly. Dick himself had been a mess during his first paparazzi run-in, even after being around raucous crowds all his life. Granted, it had been almost immediately after the death of his parents. Still, Dick was near positive that Damian had only ever seen a handful or two of people in his life, the majority of which were masked before him. It must've been Damian's first encounter with a _**crowd**_ of any sort.

Even so, all Dick wanted was for the paps to take their damn flashing cameras and shove them up their asses. And that was the least gruesome of his thoughts. Normally, he tried to remain at least _**somewhat**_ polite around the press. After all, he _**was**_ 'Gotham's Prince', and he had a reputation to uphold. But, for whatever reason that he honestly couldn't describe, nothing made him angrier than the paparazzi making Damian so miserable. In his sleep-deprived, utterly-confused, and completely-lost mind, that alone was unforgiveable.

Vaguely, he wondered if Bruce had ever felt the same about _**him**_.

He was spared from dwelling on that when a familiar face suddenly broke through the drone of confusion. _Alfred._ Standing there, proud and stately, yet with a distinct spark of annoyance and disgust in his deep eyes. The ever-loyal butler and the family's voice of reason was holding the back door of the Bentley open, patiently waiting for Dick to shove his way through the crowd. Dick managed to push past the final reporter, feeling all the others breathing down his back and unceremoniously forcing him onward, and all but dove into the familiar car with a heavy sigh of relief.

Dick landed on his side, Damian still held tightly on top of him, and he pulled his knees to his chest so that Alfred could close the door. Even when Alfred had climbed into the driver's seat and all the doors had been closed, the roar of the crowd was still achingly loud. Determinedly, the Englishman worked to drive the Bentley out of the area. But the paps were no less than obsessively persistent. While Dick cradled a shaking and quietly sobbing toddler, reporters and photographers literally pressed against the windows to try and get a good picture. Thankfully, the Bentley had a permit for tinted windows, which meant all the pictures being taken were completely useless. That didn't stop them, though, as a few of the most daring went so far as to climb onto the car's hood and try to snap pictures from there.

Alfred was growing exceptionally disgusted. A tick was developing in his forehead, and he'd most certainly require some Advil when they returned to the penthouse. "Master Richard, if you would please console the young master. I do believe my next actions may startle him a good bit," the butler suggested lightly, leaning on the horn slightly and revving the engine.

The sudden noise from the car caused Damian to twitch in Dick's arms, his sobs increasing impossibly more. Dick, now sitting up in his own seat, gently rocked the inconsolable boy, quietly murmuring reassurances into his ear and rubbing a hand delicately up and down Damian's shaking spine. A splash of yellow at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Dick shifted his gaze from his son to see a familiar blanket folded neatly in Damian's newly installed car seat.

_Alfred, what would I ever do without you?_ Dick thought in relief, reaching over to grab the fleece. _What every kid needs, assassin or not. A security blanket._ He carefully draped the cloth over the distraught boy, tucking him in so that it was secure, but not so much that the boy felt trapped. Dick laid his arms over top the blanket, wrapping his son in a warm hug.

"It's okay, little robin," Dick murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Damian's head. "Daddy's here. Daddy's got you. You're safe."

He continued to repeat that mantra on a gentle loop, settling into a rhythm of rocking the toddler and soothingly rubbing his back. Dick didn't even notice when Alfred finally managed to pull away from the paps, nor when they pulled back into their private garage at Wayne Towers. Instead, he focused on the damp face that was pressed into the crook of his neck, the gentle puffs of breath that ghosted across his Adam's apple, the tiny fist that held onto him as if he were the owner's lifeline. Halfway home, Damian had cried himself to sleep, his head resting gently on Dick's shoulder and lolling slightly with every turn of the car.

"I assume everything is alright, Master Richard?" Alfred broke the silence quietly once they were parked back home.

"Yeah, Alfie," Dick confirmed softly. "Everything's alright."

Unseen by the young heir, a proud smile spread across the English butler's aging face, before he slipped out of the car and walked around to open his surrogate grandson's door. "Come, sir," he encouraged gently. "Shall we take the young master upstairs?"

"Sounds good," the young man agreed with a warm smile, carefully climbing out of the car and repositioning Damian in his arms so that the unconscious toddler would be more comfortable.

Between the two of them, Alfred and Dick managed to grab all of their newly purchased goods in one trip and made their way to the very top floor of the building. The ride up was quiet, broken only by the near-silent breathing of the lift's three occupants. Occasionally, Dick would shift his weight from one foot to the other, and the collection of shopping bags in his hand would crinkle loudly. In retaliation, Damian, held securely in Dick's other arm, would murmur in his sleep and shift his head, the boy's button-like nose wrinkling even in his slumber.

"Alfred," Dick spoke up, his whisper smooth after all the years of practice.

The butler merely cocked an eyebrow, making no move to interrupt, but letting his young charge continue on his own volition.

"I got him to laugh," he said softly, gazing down at the boy in his arms. "I mean, he was about to start crying and everything, but I got him to _**laugh**_."

"It was only a matter of time, sir," the Englishman observed sagely.

"And I was _**happy**_ again, Alfie," the young heir went on, seemingly unable to stop now that it was all coming out. "Sitting there, in Howie's Corner, laughing with my son, I was _**happy**_."

Alfred adopted a sympathetic look, losing propriety for a moment to rest an aging hand on his charge's shoulder. He could feel the young man quivering slightly, his head bowed, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Even now, when Dick stood a few inches taller than him, and his shoulders had broadened out, all the butler could see was the scrawny, innocent little eight-year-old that used to come up to him with scraped knees and bruised elbows, asking with wide eyes for bandages and hugs to make all the pains of the world go away.

He wished for nothing more than to hug his grandson's troubles away now.

But, even so, Alfred steeled himself. He knew what was coming. Alfred always knew. It was the same thing that he had gone through with Bruce after they had taken in a precocious orphaned acrobat. Even, to a lesser extent, the same that he had endured with Thomas, mere days after Bruce's birth. Fatherhood was a grueling task, and Alfred knew very well how hard it could be to keep one's head above the waters of doubt.

"But I feel like I've forgotten _**how**_," Dick murmured miserably. "How…how am I supposed to raise Damian, to act like everything's fine in front of him? How am I supposed to go on when I feel so _**broken**_?"

"One day at a time, dear boy. One day at a time."

"I'm getting tired, Alfie," the World's Second-Greatest Detective sighed in utter defeat.

"Then perhaps a nap is in order for the both of you, sir," Alfred suggested primly, just as the lift's doors slid open into their penthouse and they stepped off.

Alfred couldn't help the smile that spread across his face in response to his charge's chuckle. _Dear boy, you are far too young and bright for these troubles. But that seems to be a recurring theme in your life, now doesn't it?_ Setting his armful of bags onto the kitchen floor, he swiftly took the remaining burden from Dick's arms.

"It is best if you and the young master retire to the master suite," Alfred instructed primly. "I will be preparing young Master Damian's room and awaiting the day's deliveries. Shall I awake you in a few hours' time, sir?"

"Alfred," Dick practically groaned petulantly. "I don't need a nap."

He received a knowing, stern look from the butler. "Master Grayson, I will _**not**_ allow for you to run yourself to the ground, and I can tell from the look in your eye that that is precisely what you are planning to do."

"But, Alfred," he protested. "I don't…I don't want to wake him up," Dick admitted, hanging his head shamefully.

The butler's eyes softened. "Rest assured, Master Richard, children have a talent of warding off the darkness," he reasoned wisely.

Dick watched him for several more seconds, his dark blue eyes flickering as if searching the butler's eyes for any signs of lying. But he knew better than that, and so trust was quickly restored to his gaze. "Right," he agreed with a slight grin. "Thanks, Alfie. I'll see you in a few hours."

At that, the heir shuffled past the kitchen and down the hallway, eventually disappearing into his room. Behind him, he was almost positive that he imagined a fond chuckle, but he ignored it in favor of dragging his feet over to his California king-sized bed. Dick hadn't realized just how much exhaustion weighed down on him, just another side-effect of being trained by the Bat, but when it finally crashed into him, he didn't even bother changing into a pair of pajamas. He simply toed off his shoes and socks and quickly stripped down into his boxers, carelessly dropping his clothes into a heap on the floor. Soon enough, the toddler's own attire joined his, until Dick settled both himself and his son under the warm covers.

A part of him was surprised that Damian had stayed asleep the entire time, before he realized that the boy probably hadn't slept well the night before, even with the sedatives in his system. Dick let the thought go, instead opting to turn onto his side and wrap his arms protectively around Damian, who was sprawled out as if he was trying to take up the entirety of the bed. Tucking the boy's mop of black hair under his chin, Dick let the toddler's gentle breathing ground him, keeping the swirling shadows at bay.

And, maybe, Dick decided vaguely, his consciousness already slipping away, there wouldn't be any nightmares.

* * *

**Word Count: 4,080**

**A/N: This is my favorite chapter so far. And I hope all of you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it! Damian playing with toy guns, a toddler's first laugh, his first run-in with the paparazzi, and his first nappy time with Daddy!**

** Anyway! I'm really, really, REALLY sorry that I didn't message everyone that left a review! It was a terribly hectic week, and then I was procrastinating, and then suddenly it was Friday! UGH**

** Shout outs to: FanGirlBecky13, maximum scythe123, thegirl1001, Canagan, Shadow Typhoon, Dr. IceKnight, and Luv2Swim for favoriting or following! Special thanks to Guest, Drawn2Danger, Shiroi Misa, shikamaru B5, ricestalk-2004, MarissaTodd, FlightfootKeyseeker, Xenitha, soccernin19, and BriannieBee64 for reviewing (sorry I didn't PM you guys)!**

** Welp, that's about it.**

** I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! And please review!**

** Have a wonderful week!  
~AvenJackel**

** Question of the Week: Are we ever going to establish a real plot in this?**

** To be revealed next week…**


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